


visenya

by longlivehousestark (abrahamsdaughterraisedherbow)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Arya-centric, F/M, Gen, Gendry is a Baratheon, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow knows something, Unplanned Pregnancy, also Sansa gets to impart sisterly wisdom on Arya and we all know she lives for that, i'm still new to this fandom, lol the angry sex is only in the prologue though don't shoot me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrahamsdaughterraisedherbow/pseuds/longlivehousestark
Summary: a moment between Gendry Baratheon and Arya Stark leads to some complications. post-season 7.





	1. prologue

“For the last time, Arya, nothing happened.”

“Oh, so I'm supposed to _believe_ \- ?”

“You really think I'm the type of person to go around whipping it out for every girl with a nice pair of tits?”

“You admit it! You found her attractive.”

Not for the first time, Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon were fighting.

Anyone at their training camp should have been smart enough to know that no one dared get on the wrong side of one of the Ladies of Winterfell, but here they were. A particularly curvy woman smelling heavily of ale had approached Gendry after dinner rations and tried to drag him into her tent, giggling drunkenly. He had refused uncomfortably, and in a last ditch attempt, she had sloppily pressed her lips to his, right at the exact moment Arya spotted them.

Arya was a more jealous woman than even she had given herself credit for. The idea of anyone's lips on Gendry's that weren't hers made her see red. She knew perfectly well that a battle camp in the North was no place to be worrying about things like this, but she just couldn't help it. He was hers, and she was his. That was the end of it.

And thus, they were fighting. Gendry continued to rightfully maintain that nothing had happened, but he knew Arya was too consumed in her own anger to see sense anymore.

"Perhaps you're perfect for each other," she said, her eyes blazing. “You ought to go find her if her tits were so great, give her what she wants -”

“Shut _up_ , Arya!” he yelled.

She looked mad enough to kill him. He believed that she would. The notion made fire erupt deep in his belly. He crossed the room toward her, noticing with pleasure the change in her eyes at the last second. She gasped hungrily into his mouth as he lifted her up into his arms. He blindly reached out and knocked whatever was on the table off of it so he could fuck her there himself. Her back slammed against the table as his tongue desperately sought hers. Her hands ripped at his clothing, wanting it off. Her legs wrapped around him, and with one swift movement, she flipped them so that he was on his back and she was on top.

They were a pair of wolves, clawing and biting. She was the alpha.

She leaned down and snarled, “Mine. You're mine.”

He groaned eagerly as she moved over him, her teeth dragging up and down along his skin as she panted into his ear.

Hers. He was hers, and she was his.


	2. an anomaly

“All right, Podrick, step up. Let's see if you've improved.”

Gendry grinned as he watched Arya step up to the edge of the clearing and draw her castle-forged weapon, that skinny little thing that he couldn't believe she still had.

Arya Stark was one of the most formidable fighters in their army, and daily training in their camp only gave her more chances to prove this. Gendry didn't ever square off against her himself, since he fought with a hammer, but it gave him great satisfaction to watch her weave in and out between swipes of much larger men's swords, still spry and alert when they had worn themselves out trying to best her.

The squire, Podrick Payne, was certainly no exception to this. He seemed a peaceful lad, not really the sort to fight. But Arya had told Gendry about how Podrick had been traveling with Brienne of Tarth for the last year or so. No doubt Brienne had taught him a few things about sparring. Gendry had seen her fight a few times. She possessed formidable skill. Arya had admiringly recounted how Brienne had taken on least six Bolton soldiers to help her sister Sansa escape from her abusive husband and then-Warden of the North, Ramsay. Even Podrick had taken one of the soldiers on.

Still, even the great Brienne of Tarth couldn't hold a candle to Arya. She had a unique fighting style that was all her own. And Gendry had to admit, that smug little smirk on her face whenever she was victorious, which was often, always caused a peal of heat down his spine.

Podrick had gotten better, though, Gendry noted, as he watched Podrick swipe his sword with a bit more precision and skill than he usually did. He was still no match for Arya, of course, and she wasn't always the most patient teacher either. Her method seemed to largely consist of allowing her opponent to fail over and over as she barked criticisms until they learned from their own mistakes.

“I've told you, Podrick, you can't lunge like that. It gives you away. Don't hold yourself so stiffly. Relax. That's it.”

Then, Arya caused a slight diversion by doing a neat flip he was sure she had learned in Braavos, one so smooth and fluid that it was like watching a dancer. Or, as Arya had told him, a water dancer.

A few of the onlookers, Gendry included, quietly applauded this move as Arya landed with her blade pointed at Podrick's throat. Podrick simply stood there, looking too impressed to care that he had been beaten again.

They both relaxed, then stepped back to opposite ends of the clearing, intending to spar again.

When she reached her side, Arya doubled over, panting for breath.

“You all right?” called Podrick.

“Fine,” she said, straightening up. “Let's go again.”

After their second time, though, it was clear Arya didn't have as much energy today as she usually did. To the passerby, Arya was the same as ever, but Gendry knew better. He had become quite familiar with her body and her movements, particularly the former. It wasn't like her to be tired so soon. She was slower today, too. As subtle as it was, Gendry saw that Arya's reflexes, while still remarkable, were not quite up to their usual caliber.

Sure enough, as Arya bested Podrick the second time, Gendry could see her huffing for breath when they relaxed, her hand against her ribs.

“I think I'm done for today,” she said good-naturedly, to light laughter from the group. She nodded toward Podrick. “Good work, Pod. Just make sure when you swipe at me you keep your center of gravity intact. Here, like this...”

They watched Arya demonstrate the appropriate way for Podrick to stand when he fought. Gendry knew Arya wanted to get Podrick to a point where he could look even somewhat intimidating, but Podrick was not exactly the picture of aggression in any facet of his life.

“Poor Pod,” said one of the soldiers near Gendry, a husky one named Braddock. “Even when Lady Arya's going easy on him he can't get a leg up on her.”

“He is doing better, though,” said another soldier next to him, Culler. “Perhaps he'll be a proper fighter soon. She's training him up well.”

Gendry turned toward them.

“She learned all that from a Braavosi swordsman,” he said, feeling a surge of pride in her abilities.

“Braavosi?” asked Culler, his eyebrows raising. “I didn't know that's how they did it down there. She's good. Hard to expect much when you first look at her, what with her being no bigger than a barrel of ale and having a skinny little poker for a sword. But gods, she's something.”

“She sparred with Brienne of Tarth and won,” said Braddock to Culler. “You've seen how big that woman is. And Lady Arya bested her too. Pod can try, bless him, but let's hope he's better at killing the dead than the living.”

“Pod's got a different legacy, anyway,” said Culler, smirking.

Gendry raised an eyebrow. “Just what sort of legacy is that?”

Braddock and Culler exchanged a look.

“You mean you don't know?” snorted Culler. “I thought everyone knew about Pod and his magic cock.”

Gendry laughed in disbelief. “You're joking.”

“He's not,” said Braddock. “I heard when Pod was a Lannister squire, the Imp bought him three whores as thanks for saving his life at the Battle of Blackwater. And the whores were so impressed with him, _they didn't want to be paid_. That's how good of a fuck he was.”

Gendry wasn't sure what to say to this. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arya talking to Podrick, presumably offering him some last tidbits of advice on his sword skills. He watched her pat Podrick's shoulder and felt a twinge of annoyance.

After it was clear that Arya and Podrick were done sparring for the day, the group dispersed for supper. Gendry walked up to Arya, and after she had slid Needle back into its hilt and nodded goodbye at Podrick, they left the training ground together.

“Come here,” he said, taking her by the arm.

He dragged her to his forging tent, which sat a short distance away.

“What?” she demanded, as he pulled her through the entrance of the tent. “What's the matter?”

“Don't hang around Pod so much,” he said, facing her.

Arya snorted. “Why not? He's harmless.”

“No, he isn't.”

“What makes you think he's not?”

“He's got a magic cock, apparently.”

“Seen a lot of cocks, have you?” She smirked.

“Ha-ha. Braddock and Culler were talking about it.”

“And?”

“Maybe I don't want Pod to get any ideas,” said Gendry, reaching out and pulling her close to him.

She grinned wickedly, her hands starting to travel across his chest.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really,” he said, his own hands resting on her hips.

Arya reached up and kissed him once, very softly, right next to his ear.

“I like it when you're jealous,” she purred, and he felt her tongue flit against his earlobe.

Gendry grinned, pulling her hips in toward his.

“You shouldn't hang around Pod so much,” he said for the second time.

“If it gets you like this, maybe I want to,” she said, giving him a gentle bite just behind his neck.

“I'm only like this for you,” said Gendry.

He felt her smile into his skin.

“You better be.” She ran her fingers through his hair and he kissed her. She smelled like snow and pine and smoke. Intoxicating. And he was drunk for her.

Arya's tongue slipped into his mouth, eager and hungry for him, her fingers tangled in his hair, which had gotten shaggier in recent months. She certainly didn't seem to have any objection to this as her fist closed around a handful of his hair and she kissed him more urgently. Gendry reached under her shirt, his hand coming to cup her breast.

Suddenly, Arya jerked and pulled away from him with a squeak of pain.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“That hurt,” she said, looking stung.

“I'm sorry,” he said guiltily, feeling a little confused. He wanted to reach out and kiss her again, to try to recover the moment, but it was shattered. She backed away from him, her arms over her chest.

“We should probably get to supper rations before they wonder where we've gone,” Arya said, still looking uncomfortable. And without another word, she walked past him out of the tent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to give you guys an idea of how much I'm working on this story and how much there is left still to come, it's currently at 24 pages in my Word document. And it's still not finished. I'm excited to share the rest with you all! Next chapter should be up shortly after this one. Just need to make sure I'm satisfied with it. -llhs


	3. an inquiry

Supper rations were far from elaborate in their camp. They usually managed to have a small portion of meat a night, and maybe a vegetable or a root of some kind if the food was plentiful enough that week. Today, it was only some rabbit, mixed into a watery stew.

Gendry didn't really mind. He had grown up on less.

Despite their awkward encounter earlier, Arya still came to sit next to him. She still looked uncomfortable, but it didn't seem to be with him as she sat down and briefly put her small hand over his. It almost felt like an apology.

Gendry lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. She didn't need to apologize. It was his fault, really. He must have just been a bit too eager.

Supper began, and soon the low rumble of conversation began to reverberate around the tent. Most of the soldiers, himself and Arya included, tended to finish their food fairly quickly, and often spent the rest of the time in conversation, swapping stories about their respective hometowns, their families, their Houses, and so on. But tonight, while he finished his portion in the usual amount of time, Gendry saw that Arya merely looked at her food without touching it, her mouth drawn, her face slightly pale.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

“I'm not very hungry,” she replied.

“Eat up, Lady Arya,” advised one of the soldiers sitting across from them, a particularly robust one named Grenn. “You'll need your strength. We've got some c-”

It gave Gendry some amusement to see large, brutish Grenn be glared into silence by one of the smallest soldiers in the camp. But even Arya's usual ferocity was somewhat muted.

“If she keeps eating near you, Grenn, there won't be any strength left to gain,” joked Gendry. A low rumble of laughter moved around their side of the table. He saw Arya's mouth twitch in what could have been a smile before fading back into the same miserable look she had before.

He felt Jon's eyes on them and hurriedly turned his attention back to his own meager rations. He wondered what Jon must be thinking as he looked at them.

Arya had been avoiding Jon, too, which was interesting to Gendry. The two of them were obviously close. He remembered when they had arrived at Winterfell. Gendry had watched Arya fling herself into Jon's arms, crying like he had never seen her do, clinging onto him as if he were the last thing in the world. He had watched Jon plant a kiss on Arya's cheek and rock her in his arms, obviously relieved that she was alive. He had learned later that Jon was Arya's brother, and she had not seen him for several years. She had not even known he was alive until a few months previously.

Judging by current events, that sort of relieved happiness seemed to have dissipated somewhat. Now Arya would hurriedly duck out of sight when Jon approached, and whenever they ate supper rations she would sit away from him, not right next to him like she had been. Gendry felt more at ease on Jon's side of the table anyway, because it was full of people he already knew; Jon himself, of course. Brienne of Tarth. Podrick. Sandor Clegane. His friend Davos Seaworth. Tormund, the wilding who had eyes for Brienne. Gendry knew Arya was more comfortable sitting around all of them than sitting around soldiers she barely knew. She and Jon must have disagreed over something. It was the only reason he could think of as to why she was distancing herself.

Gendry's other theory was that Arya had been injured in training and was too proud to admit it. It could still be true. She did get winded at training today. Perhaps she'd strained a muscle or fractured a bone and was just trying to ignore it. Arya was the kind of person who could have a knife in her belly and would still be insisting she was all right and capable of fighting. That's just how she was. Unflappable.

But Arya didn't seem as if she were in any pain. Just uncomfortable. And unhappy.

After rations, she broke off from the group and began to walk away toward her tent.

Gendry followed her.

“Arya!”

She didn't turn around. “Leave me alone.”

“Not until you tell me what's wrong with you.”

That made her stop. She turned to look at him.

“Who said anything was wrong?”

“You're joking, right? You've been acting strange for days.”

“No, I haven't. You're imagining things.”

“No, I'm not,” said Gendry, taking her arm and pulling her behind the supper tent, so their conversation could be a little more private. He lowered his voice. “You've been getting tired at training. At supper you barely eat anything. And you'll barely look at Jon anymore, let alone talk to him. You expect me to be stupid enough not to notice something's off?”

She didn't say anything.

“Come on, Arya. I know you. Please tell me.”

“I don't know!” she said exasperatedly, throwing up her hands. “I don't know what's wrong. I can't eat, I can't train, and I feel like shit all day, every day. There, you happy?”

“Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?”

“Because then you're going to tell Jon, and he'll think I can't handle being here.”

Gendry was shocked to see tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“You're crying,” he said.

“No, I'm not,” she snarled, wiping her eyes angrily.

Gendry put his hands on her shoulders.

“I don't think anyone thinks you haven't earned a right to be here,” he said, his voice much softer. “But this is what I'm talking about, Arya. You don't think like this.”

Arya broke away from him, avoiding his eyes.

“You're going to tell Jon,” she said again.

“I know you trust me better than that. I'm not telling him anything unless you want me to.”

She was quiet. Then she stepped forward into his arms.

Poor Arya, Gendry thought as Arya embraced him. She really must feel bad if she's affectionate out in public like this. Arya wasn't really the sort of person to dole out hugs, even to him. The most affectionate she got was when they were alone. The occasional kiss on the nose or nip on the neck when they were in bed. As far as sex, affectionate was the wrong word. Unrestrained was more like it. Passionate. Feral. A true wolf. And gods, did he like her like that.

He blinked a few times, bringing himself back to earth, and put his arms around her, rubbing her back.

“I feel awful,” she said into his shirt, a little dejectedly.

“Then stop being proud and go talk to Maester Helliweg,” said Gendry, resting his chin on her head.

 

Arya couldn't understand why she was so nervous.

The maester who served House Royce, a plump and kindly one named Helliweg, had decided to accompany their group up in the North. Since Jon was the King in the North, many of them had first assumed that Maester Wolkan would have accompanied them, but Jon had insisted that Winterfell's maester was needed at Winterfell to help Sansa, and the other Houses were not large enough to do without their own maesters. Lord Royce had then stepped in and recommended his House's maester.

It wasn't as if Arya had heard anything negative about Maester Helliweg. Quite the opposite, actually. He was apparently quite knowledgeable and wise in his old age, and had a wealth of experience.

So why did she feel so terrified?

She stepped into the tent. In the corner sat a cloaked man, writing something at what she assumed was his desk, his quill scratching away, his back to her.

“Excuse me,” she said.

The man turned to look at her. Arya saw his round face, short gray hair and beard, kind features, and the chains hanging around his neck, and knew immediately that this must be Maester Helliweg.

“Lady Arya,” he said, putting down his quill. He stood and bowed his head.

“You can just call me Arya,” she said. She would never feel comfortable with that title. That kind of acknowledgment was better suited for people like Sansa, the kind of people who were clearly made to be lords and ladies: those who were good at being regal and diplomatic, two qualities Arya decidedly did not possess. _Lady Sansa_ flowed much more smoothly off the tongue than _Lady Arya_.

“As you wish. Please, take a seat,” he said, gesturing to a nearby chair. “What can I do for you?”

“I haven't been feeling well,” said Arya, sitting down.

“I'm sorry to hear it. What sort of symptoms do you have?”

“I can't eat anything without it coming back up later. Just looking at food makes me want to vomit. I'm tired all the time, no matter how well I've slept. I can't train normally either. Today, I couldn't do any of my normal moves without feeling like my chest would explode.”

He looked thoughtfully at her for a few moments.

“Come lie down, if you please,” he said. Arya followed Maester Helliweg to a cot by the wall of the tent.

“I realize there are more cots in the medical tent, but I keep a cot here in case I need it,” he said cheerfully, as Arya lay down. “Now, I'm just going to feel your stomach, all right?”

She nodded, frowning a little as he placed his weathered hands on her midriff, pressing and prodding different areas of her stomach.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What?”

“Are you feeling any pain?”

“I feel cramping in my stomach,” she said. “And...”

She hesitated, feeling heat rise into her face.

“And...?”

“My...breasts,” she managed. “They hurt.”

Maester Helliweg didn't seem bothered by this.

“Do they feel swollen?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“When was the last time you bled?” he asked.

Arya thought back.

When was the last time? She hadn't bled since...

Then it hit her.

Dread flooded through her veins like ice.

No.

“My lady?”

“I haven't bled in a while,” she heard herself say, dazed with shock.

She couldn't be.

The maester nodded knowingly.

“As I suspected.”

And now her anxiety about coming to see Maester Helliweg made much more sense, just like everything else. The exhaustion. The nausea. The irritation. The lack of blood that month.

Because, somewhere within her, she had known all along.

Arya put a hand on her stomach.

“I'm pregnant,” she whispered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment of truth! Yes, all of you knew it was coming, but it's still exciting to hear her say it, yeah? :)  
> I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, because there are some sizable gaps in it right now. But as I've said, I'm working on this story day and night. I'm also still trying to figure out where to split the chapters. If last chapter's ending felt a little abrupt, that's probably why.  
> Thank you for all of your support! Stay tuned! -llhs


	4. a decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this chapter is a bit long. Enjoy :)

“I'm pregnant.”

Arya bolted upright, looking at Maester Helliweg.

“I'm pregnant, I – I'm -”

Her head swam, and a grey fuzz filled her vision. Arya felt herself reach out blindly as she swayed sideways, falling into the maester's arms. She heard him start to talk, from somewhere off in the distance, but she couldn't understand him. Then she could only see blackness.

When Arya opened her eyes. she was lying back down, this time on her side. Maester Helliweg had presumably pulled up a chair and was sitting there in front of her.

She blinked, and tried to get up again, reaching out toward him. “I-”

He put both hands on her arms and gently pushed her back down.

“Easy, my lady. You sat up too quickly. Lie still.”

She took a shaky breath.

“I'm pregnant,” she repeated.

She remembered that much before she had passed out. The news was still hitting her in waves. Maester Helliweg had yet to confirm it, but she knew. There was no doubt in her mind about it. She knew.

The maester was nodding. “Yes, my lady. It appears that you are. Not very far along yet, but you are showing all of the signs. Your stomach is firm, too.”

Arya's hand wandered to her middle and noticed, for the first time, that the muscles underneath did feel tighter, more compact. As if to protect the child growing there. Her child. Gendry's child.

Gods, what was he going to think? He would be happy, surely...but given their circumstances, would he be upset? Worse, would he blame himself? Claim he had ruined her life? Arya wasn't sure if she was prepared to see that kind of guilt on Gendry's face.

“What should I do?” she whispered.

Maester Helliweg looked sympathetic.

“You have two options. The first, of course, is that you continue to carry the baby. Though, understand – you would likely be barred from fighting once King Jon discovers you are pregnant. No, I'm not going to tell him,” he held up a hand as she opened her mouth indignantly. “But it is not something you will be able to hide for very long. He will notice eventually, as will everyone else. Your belly will grow; there is no stopping that. And your symptoms are not going to go away, either. I can give you herbs to alleviate them, but you will have the same difficulties in training due to your condition.”

“And my second option?” asked Arya.

The maester paused a moment before answering. “Moon tea.”

Moon tea. The thing women drank to prevent or get rid of pregnancy.

“If you decide to terminate your pregnancy, I can brew some moon tea for you. You'll come here to drink it, so I can monitor you as it happens and make sure that you are able to heal properly afterward. I will likely want to keep an eye on you for about a week afterward, to make sure there are no residual effects. But that will be the end of it.”

The maester sat patiently as she ruminated in silence.

“I don't know what I want to do,” she admitted, after a long pause.

“You don't have to decide now. Give it some thought, and come back here when you have figured out the best course of action.”

She did not feel dizzy anymore as the maester helped her sit up, but her head was still reeling from the news. Pregnant. Gods. How had she gotten herself into this?

Then she remembered. They had fought over that winter town whore a month or so ago, and as a result they had quickly gone from fighting in the forge to fucking on the table. Her favorite kind of argument with Gendry, if she were honest with herself...

Arya shook her head to clear it. _Gendry can't know,_ she decided. _No one can know, until I figure out what in seven hells I'm going to do._

 

She had a feeble hope that Gendry would forget to ask her if she had gone to the maester or not, so she could altogether avoid lying to him, but as if the gods were laughing at her, he approached her the next morning before training.

“Did you go see the maester?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And? What did he say?”

“It's nothing to worry about,” she said casually.

“Not being able to eat or train is nothing to worry about?”

“Maester Helliweg said it's a result of being a soldier. It's a special sort of stress.”

“But...” said Gendry, and she saw a dull flush creep up his neck. “Your...breasts.”

“Yes, he said that could happen too. Stop fretting. I'm fine.”

Guilt twisted in the pit of her stomach as she saw his shoulders sag a little in relief. He reached out and pulled her to him, resting his forehead on hers.

“I was starting to worry,” he said.

“I don't need to be worried over,” said Arya, though not as stubbornly as usual.

Gendry gave her a light kiss just below her hairline. “Yes you do, Arya Stark.”

 

Arya continued to train normally that next month. She'd had to come up with an excuse for why she was behaving strangely, and in the end, she decided an injury was best. So when she was bent over and practically wheezing after a training session, she made a show of putting her hand to her ribcage and wincing. The other soldiers, of course, bought into it immediately.

“Lady Arya, are you all right?”

“You think you ought to see the maester, my lady?”

“Oh, I strained a muscle,” she lied, forcing a smile. “I'll be fine, really.”

It seemed to assuage them for the time being, but after a month had passed, Arya wasn't sure how much longer she could hide it. Gendry seemed to be fooled, but he would notice when she wasn't getting better. She wanted to tell him, but she knew what would happen next. He would fuss and fret and insist that she be removed from the fighting. Arya refused to be made useless by her condition. It wasn't that dangerous yet, she thought to herself as she made her way back to her tent one afternoon. There wasn't any direct threat to her child right now. As long as she could still fit into her protective armor, which included a stomach plate, she had some time to figure it out.

She felt soldiers' eyes on her as she passed. No doubt it had gotten around that she wasn't fighting at her usual skill. She ignored them, though her hand automatically went to Needle, clutching its hilt. It was a shot to her pride, not being able to keep up like she normally would, but she knew if she lashed out at anyone for belittling her then she risked exposing the truth. She must grit her teeth and bear it for now.

Arya ducked into her tent and crossed the room, removing her armor as she went and letting it drop to the floor before sitting down on her bed. She slowly lifted her shirt to reveal her stomach, and she lay a hand on it, breathing out slowly. Even with the jagged scars across her abdomen, the ones from the Waif's attempt on her life in Braavos, the firmness of the muscles underneath calmed her somehow.

Questions swirled around in Arya's head, making her feel dizzy. If she decided to bring the child into the world, could she and Gendry raise it, assuming both of them survived this war? And what if one of them died, and the other one didn't? Could she care for her child alone? Could Gendry, if she did not live to see the Night King fall? Would the child itself survive to full term? Would Arya survive the pregnancy? If she did, would she survive the birth? Would the child?

It was too big of a decision to make, and too soon. Arya hadn't even been sure if she wanted children. She still wasn't sure.

Moon tea was still an option, if she decided she did not. Sansa had almost come into contact with it. When Sansa had been married to Ramsay Bolton, he had raped her several times. Unbeknownst to anyone else but Jon, one of these times had resulted in pregnancy. So when Arya had finally returned to Winterfell, Sansa was not far enough along to be visibly pregnant, but she had confessed it to her later on. Sansa had told Arya she was considering using moon tea to do away with the pregnancy. _I can't have that monster's baby_ , she'd said, wringing her hands. _I can't, Arya, I can't_. So moon tea had seemed like the obvious option. About a week after this conversation, however, Sansa had come knocking on Arya's door in the middle of the night, in tears, saying that she had gone to Maester Wolkan and requested the moon tea. But she hadn't been able to drink it. She hated that it was Ramsay's child, she was terrified it would grow to be like him, but she couldn't punish the babe for all that had happened to her. And so, eight moons later, little Robb Stark was born one calm morning right before dawn. He had dark hair and dark eyes, looking more similar to his own namesake than Ramsay. He was a few months shy of a year now, with curious eyes and a smile that seemed to heal his mother a little every time it appeared on his sweet, innocent face.

Sweet and innocent. The polar opposite of Ramsay Bolton, thank the gods.

She started at a voice calling out to her from nearby.

“Arya?”

It was Gendry. Arya crossed the tent and poked her head out from between the folds of the fabric.

“Gendry.”

“May I come in?”

She nodded, stepping aside to let him through. He walked toward the table, pulled a chair toward him and sat in it. She sat in the chair next to his, facing him.

“So how are you feeling?” he asked, although there was something off about his voice.

“Same as ever,” she said.

“Is your strained muscle still hurting you?”

“Some,” she lied, pretending to wince.

“You told me you were feeling bad because of stress. You never said anything about straining a muscle.”

“Well, like I told you before,” Arya hurriedly explained, inwardly cursing herself for such an oversight. “The maester says that stress can cause – ”

“Just stop it, Arya,” Gendry interjected suddenly.

She faltered, staring at him.

“You're lying, and I know it. Not about feeling sick. I believe you aren't feeling well. But you've changed your story. Before, it was stress. Now, a strained muscle. You may have fooled all of the other men in this camp, but not me.”

Arya blanched under the look he was giving her. She should have known he wouldn't be so easily fooled. He seemed to notice this, and his voice became a little gentler.

“I know you, Arya, and whether you believe that or not, you're trying to hide something. Something serious. And I want you to tell me what it is.”

She couldn't look at him anymore, and she let her eyes drop to her lap. She watched his warm hand cover hers.

“Please tell me, Arya.”

“I did go and see Maester Helliweg,” she admitted finally. “That wasn't a lie. But...”

She swallowed hard.

“But what?”

“He said that I...” Arya tried to get the words out. “He said I'm...”

Her hand went to her stomach, as if she was going to be sick.

“Are you ill?” asked Gendry.

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. The truth was sitting on the very tip of her tongue, and Arya knew it was only a few words away from escaping.

“Not ill. I'm – I'm -”

Arya kept her hand on her stomach. It took Gendry a few moments, but then -

“What are you – oh. _Oh._ ”

Understanding seemed to flood him. Their eyes met, and he put his hand over hers.

“You're - ?”

Arya nodded, inwardly grateful she didn't have to say it aloud.

“But...how? No, not like that,” he said, blushing furiously. “When did we -”

“When we fought,” she said, and she saw the memory resurface in his eyes. The argument that had become quite a bit more than an argument. The kind of argument that had ended with them fucking on a table.

“You're pregnant,” he said.

“Yes,” said Arya uncertainly.

Wonder filled Gendry's face.

“A baby,” he murmured.

Arya allowed herself to smile a little as she watched him stare at her abdomen, placing both of his roughened hands on it. He didn't seem upset. If anything, he seemed elated.

Gendry shook himself out of his stupor after a minute or two.

“You have to tell Jon,” he said.

Ice-cold dread settled into Arya's bones.

“I can't."

“You'll have to,” said Gendry. “He'll notice eventually.”

“But not yet,” said Arya, looking at him desperately. “Please. We can't tell him yet.”

Gendry sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I won't say anything to him. But you should.”

“I don't know how,” she said exasperatedly. “'Jon, I know this is a bad time, but I'm pregnant. And Gendry is the father of my child. All right, hope you have a nice day. Seven blessings.'”

“I don't know either, Arya! I don't know, all right?”

They both fell quiet, staring down at the floor.

“It'll be a bastard,” said Gendry.

Arya sighed heavily. She'd been afraid of that.

Gendry met her gaze, and she could swear she saw tears in his eyes.

“I swore to myself I'd never put a child through that,” he said.

At times it was easy for her to forget that Gendry was a bastard, not least because he wasn't highborn and Arya never had to watch him be openly chastised for it like Jon. But he'd told her of Cersei Lannister's conquest against all of Robert Baratheon's bastards, and how Davos Seaworth had had to smuggle him away for his protection. Even an unknown bastard suffered the consequences of his birth.

“Maybe we won't have to put it through that,” she suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“The maester said that I can have moon tea if I want it,” said Arya. “To...do away with it.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

“What do you want to do?” he questioned finally.

“I don't know,” she said.

“Do you want a baby?”

“Do _you?_ ” She dodged the question.

“Well, yeah, I thought...down the line...” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I thought it would turn out differently. I was hoping -”

But he blushed and did not complete the sentence.

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind. Look. If you decide you want to go through with this, then we'll go through with it. But if you decide that you don't, that's all right with me too. Whatever you decide...I'll be there. I won't tell you to do one thing or the other.”

She smirked at this. “As if you'd try to tell me to do anything.”

“I would never dare,” he said, grinning too. “You're a proper lady now.”

“Shut up.”

“As my lady commands,” he said, dipping his head.

She smacked him on the arm, and they both chuckled quietly before falling silent again.

“What do you think?” Arya murmured, after a few moments.

He reached out and took her hand.

“I think we'll figure this out,” said Gendry.

 

When she was sure most of the camp had settled in, Arya slipped out into the night.

The maester's tent was not difficult to find. It was settled just beyond Jon's. Even though she was sure everyone in the vicinity was asleep, Arya still felt the need to walk as quietly as possible. Somewhere deep down she was afraid to wake Jon, and gods help her if she had to explain herself to him this late at night. He was likely upset with her already for avoiding him.

Arya slipped through the entrance of the maester's tent.

“Maester Helliweg?”

He appeared from behind a cabinet, holding a handful of herbs.

“Arya.”

She stepped forward. “I need your help.”

“You've come just at the right time. I was going to put these away and go -”

“Moon tea,” she interrupted him. “I need some moon tea.”

Maester Helliweg looked at her for a moment. She braced herself for judgment.

But his eyes were clear. He merely walked over to a corner of the tent into what she could assume were his medicine stores. He emerged with a small teapot and a mug.

“I made some earlier, my lady, in case you were to need it.”

Arya watched the maester pour the dark tea into the mug.

“I'll give you leave so you may have some privacy,” he said, handing it to her. “When you have finished it, call for me. I'll be just outside.”

And he left without another word.

Arya sat down at the small table, grasping the handle of the mug. She took one deep breath, then another.

Slowly she raised the mug to her lips.

And it stayed there.

She took another deep breath. _Come on, Arya. Just drink it._

Her hands had begun to shake, and nausea was rising up within her like a poison. She felt dizzy.

_Just drink the damn tea._

It smelled of tansy and mint and wormwood, and looked unassuming enough, but Arya knew better. Enough of this tea and her body would eject the child through pain and blood.

Something creaked near the entrance of the tent, and Arya jumped so badly that some of the tea spilled over into her mouth. In her momentary panic, she felt herself swallow it.

Instantly she vomited. The moon tea she had drunk, and whatever little she'd eaten that day, came up onto the floor. The mug fell from her hand and cracked into jagged shards, its contents spilling. Shaking and pale, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, her lips trembling and her breathing shallow as if she were going to vomit again. Once she realized she wouldn't, she cried out.

“Help,” she managed, and then louder. “Help!”

Helliweg burst in immediately. His eyes fell onto the broken mug, the spilled tea, and the vomit, and he seemed to understand what had happened.

Arya had fallen to her knees a short distance away, trembling uncontrollably. The maester came close and knelt beside her, a hand on her back.

“I – I –” Arya's throat felt as if it were closing.

“There, there,” said Helliweg. “Easy does it. Take a deep breath.”

He kept his large, warm hand on her back until her breathing had somewhat returned to normal. When she could finally look at him, her vision blurred with tears.

“I couldn't,” she said finally.

He gave her a kind smile.

“It's all right, my lady.”

“Don't tell Jon,” she pleaded. “Please don't tell Jon. Please.”

“I will tell no one unless you wish it, Arya.”

The maester offered out his hand. She accepted, and he helped her stand back up.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Wait a moment,” he told her, before going over to his stores again and rummaging through them for a few seconds. He took out some bright green leaves, dropped them into a mortar, and began to crush them. Then she saw him put the leaves into a small vial.

“Take this.”

He approached her and pressed the vial into her hand.

“Mint. It will help with the nausea.”

“Thank you,” she replied, slipping it into her pocket.

“I'll need you to come back in a few weeks' time,” he said. “I need to examine you regularly to ensure that everything is progressing the way that it should. If you begin to experience anything concerning, please do not hesitate to come see me sooner.”

Arya nodded silently.

He dipped his head. “My lady.”

She thanked him again before she stumbled blindly out of the tent, hoping to get to Gendry before he went to sleep for the night. She ran around the corner of the maester's tent and collided with someone else, causing whoever it was to groan “oof!” She only needed a moment to recognize his warm, strong body flush against hers.

“Gendry!” she squeaked.

“I knew you'd be here,” said Gendry urgently. “Arya, listen – ”

He broke off, suddenly noticing the tear tracks on her cheeks.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

She shook her head, choking back a sob.

“I didn't,” she cried. “I couldn't.”

It seemed to take him a few seconds to process what she was telling him.

“You didn't – ?”

“No.”

In the glow of the nearby torches, Arya watched Gendry's worried facial expression melt into one of powerful, immediate relief. He put his hands on her face, wiping her tears with his thumbs.

“I don't want you to do away with it,” Gendry said. “I want us to do this. To raise our child. Together.”

He placed his roughened hands on her stomach. Arya could have cried at the look in his eyes; so soft and gentle and actually _happy_ , if she could believe it.

“I love you,” he said, his eyes meeting hers.

Arya kissed him hard before embracing him, resting her head against his chest and closing her eyes. Yes, she was afraid. Absolutely terrified. Perhaps he was too. Perhaps he, like her, had no real idea what they were committing themselves to by agreeing to keep the child.

But perhaps, for now, that was all right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me FOREVER to write, so I hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter shouldn't take too long, since I have the basic outline for it pretty much finished. And a huge thanks to my lovely April (@blacksmithgendry on Tumblr), my biggest collaborator on this story!


	5. a conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this chapter is a long one. But a lot of important things happen, and I don't want to splice any of the material here into a different chapter, so here we are. Enjoy!

Arya wasn't sure whether to be glad or annoyed that she had told Gendry about her pregnancy. On one hand, she no longer had to bear the burden of her secret alone. For that, Arya was grateful. On the other hand, however, Gendry fussed and fretted as she knew that he would. He wasn't able to say anything to her while they were at training, so as to avoid suspicion, although Arya would swear she could hear him worrying about her when she would finish a session with someone.

They would return from training, and Gendry would accompany her back to her tent, asking her if she felt all right, if he needed to go to the maester to fetch her anything. During supper rations she would feel his eyes on her as she took small bites of her food, hoping that the mint she'd taken that day would help her keep her food down.

After a few weeks of this, she'd had enough.

“You have to be more careful when you water dance,” he told her one night while they were in his forge, him touching up some armor and her watching him. “You could fall and hurt yourself. Or you could hurt the baby. You don't do those flips anymore, which is good, but there's still a risk of –”

Arya suddenly stood and walked right up to him.

“Listen here,” she said, grabbing his chin and pulling his face down close to hers. “Stop treating me like I'm made of glass. I'm all right.”

“You're carrying my baby,” said Gendry, barely blinking at this. “I'm allowed to be a little protective.”

“I'm. _Fine._ ”

“If you keep training the way you are, you won't be. I know you think you can ignore the baby, Arya, but you can't.”

“I don't think that,” Arya protested.

They were unable to come to an agreement on this, as due to their current environment Gendry could not be openly protective and in turn she could not openly refute it. So they were forced to bear each other for now.

Arya and Gendry had been able to keep Arya's pregnancy hidden for about a month, but the secret was starting to splinter. The soldiers did not seem to suspect anything, since Arya had told them she had strained a muscle and they believed her. She was still avoiding Jon, which had begun to arouse suspicion from those closest to them. Arya would occasionally catch Davos looking at her during supper rations as she struggled to eat. Davos had had a son, Gendry had told her once, and she even had a fleeting thought that Davos might have figured out the truth. But if Davos did indeed notice her pregnancy, he said nothing about it.

The Hound, who was perhaps the last person on earth Arya wanted to confide in about her condition, would make comments when she faltered at training.

“Gods, girl, can't you get something for that?” he grumbled, as Arya staggered away from him, almost forgetting to put her hand to her ribs. “Fighting you isn't a challenge anymore. It's fucking boring.”

“I would have said the same for you,” she shot back once she had recovered.

The surrounding soldiers laughed. The Hound scowled, but he made no more comments after that.

Brienne even approached her another morning, just before training began.

“How is that muscle you pulled?”

“It's improving,” said Arya, careful to make eye contact so that Brienne would not think she was lying. Even then, she knew Brienne didn't believe her.

“Anything else troubling you?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You've been avoiding your brother. You expect me to believe – ”

“With respect, Lady Brienne,” said Arya, adopting a tone of voice that she'd heard Sansa use when someone had crossed a line. “What happens between me and Jon is none of your business.”

She glanced over into the clearing, where a few of the soldiers had already begun sparring.

“It's time to begin training,” she said, with a tone of finality.

Brienne dipped her head. “Yes, my lady.”

Arya watched her go, determined not to appear as rattled as she felt. She should have known that others would begin to notice her behavior. It was an awful secret to carry, even with Gendry knowing too. Suddenly, she missed Brienne. Arya did not get to train with her as often due to Brienne's new responsibilities as a commander in their army. She wondered how Brienne would react if she knew the truth, or the Hound, if he were to find out. He was likely too thick-headed to come to such a conclusion, but he'd noticed she'd been different too. Arya walked to training, her head reeling.

She awoke the next morning feeling heavy as she slowly sat up on her bed. It was the first morning she'd really felt the physical change that she was experiencing. It wasn't totally unfamiliar; her clothing was a little tighter now, predictably around her middle. Her belly was just barely beginning to swell, something that Maester Helliweg had warned would happen once she was three moons along. So much time had passed already.

She started to dress for training, feeling dread settle into her bones again. She would not allow herself to consider what the end of pregnancy would bring, but if time continued to move as fast as the last three months had, it would be here before she knew it. She shook her head a little to clear it.

Her training gear on, she looped her belt around her waist and tried to fasten it. This gave her unexpected pause; it wouldn't reach all the way around her middle. The ends of it barely touched, so good luck if she expected to fasten it through one of the holes.

She frowned, pulling both ends of the belt as hard as she could. It was resolutely too small to fit her. Anxiety clenched in her chest.

“No,” she whispered.

Arya strained the belt over her middle. Try as she might, she couldn't fasten it.

Panicked, she was out of her tent and at Gendry's in a number of minutes.

“There's a problem,” she said abruptly, bursting through the tent flap.

He nearly jumped out of his skin, the sword he had been tending to clattering to the floor.

“Seven hells, Arya, you startled me.”

“I shouldn't have. If a White Walker had come in here, you'd be dead by now. But that's not the point.”

“Well then what – ”

“I can't fit my clothing,” she said. “You can see that I've...grown.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. Look, I can't get the belt over my stomach.”

She tried it again so Gendry could see it and to perhaps disprove to herself that it wouldn't fasten. But it was the same result as before.

“Let me see it without the belt,” Gendry suggested.

She let the belt drop to the floor.

“Turn in a circle.”

Slowly Arya rotated on the spot.

“Well?” she demanded.

The look on his face told her everything.

“You can tell I'm pregnant, can't you?”

“All right, don't panic. I'm sure there's a way we can –”

“There isn't, idiot. I don't have any way to hide it. They'll know.”

And then someone would tell Jon.

Arya sat down, clasping her hands. They were out of time. She couldn't run from what she would inevitably have to do anymore. She took a deep breath. Then another.

“Jon can't find it out from someone else,” she said finally, meeting Gendry's eyes. “He has to hear it from me.”

He swallowed, then nodded.

 

Just as training was getting ready to start, Arya spotted Jon and Davos a short distance away from the clearing, heading toward his tent.

“Jon!”

Jon and Davos both turned as she approached them, Jon looking surprised.

“I was starting to think you'd forgotten my name,” he said, by way of a feeble joke.

“I need to speak with you in private.”

“Training's about to begin,” he said shortly. “After that's finished, you can –”

“Now.”

He stared at her, and Arya felt guilt twist in the pit of her stomach once more. He was well within his rights to refuse her company, as she had done to him for roughly two months now. She understood that she had to make amends, but in this case, she was probably about to cause him more grief than comfort.

“Please,” she said.

Jon nodded to Davos.

“You'll oversee the training for today. And talk to Gendry,” he added, causing Arya a brief moment of panic before he continued. “Make sure the armor from training's been repaired. ”

Davos dipped his head to Jon, then to Arya.

“My lord. My lady.”

Jon waited until Davos had gotten a reasonable distance away before beckoning to Arya.

“Come on, then.”

 

Jon's tent was much larger than hers, though not really any more lavish. Jon never thought himself a king, even now that he possessed the title. But Arya felt as if she might as well be in the presence of a much more self-important king, as she certainly would have felt as much or more anxiety in that situation as she did now.

Jon did not look at her as he strode over to the table where the ale and mugs sat.

“What can I do for you, my lady?” he said neutrally, picking up a mug and positioning it under the hole in the barrel of ale.

 _My lady._ The words went through her like glass.

“Stop that,” she said quietly.

“Well, I clearly haven't been your brother for the past two months,” said Jon, his back still turned as the ale poured into his mug. “I've barely been your friend. And I certainly haven't been your king.”

“I know I've been...off,” she said.

“ _Off?_ ” At this he turned around and stepped forward, stopping right in front of her. “Arya. You won't speak to me or even look at me anymore. I see you walk away when I approach. I'm not sure what I've done to deserve it.”

“You haven't,” Arya interjected desperately, reaching out and taking his arm. Her heart clenched as he pulled it away. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

“If someone's done something to you –” Jon began.

“I think you would know if someone had done something to me,” said Arya.

“And how would I know that?”

“Because that person would be dead.”

Jon didn't smile.

“Not that, then. So, what? What's going on?”

She found she couldn't look at him, so she turned away, staring out of the tent flap at the activity of the camp outside. Her hand went absentmindedly to her abdomen, and it was the slight curve of her belly and the firm, safe muscles underneath that finally gave her the strength to say it.

“I'm going to have a baby.”

Arya swore she could hear the air leave Jon's lungs. His voice was much quieter when he spoke.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

After a few minutes of silence, Arya finally felt brave enough to look at Jon. His face was riddled with shock and disbelief. He sighed heavily, sitting down in his chair behind the writing table and running a hand through his hair.

“Seven hells, Arya.”

Arya said nothing. Jon gestured at a chair on the other side of the table.

“Sit down.”

“I'm fine.”

“Sit down,” Jon repeated, a hard edge to his voice. “Now.”

Arya obeyed, feeling the disappointment in his voice cut her to the bone. Letting Jon down somehow hurt much more deeply than anything else.

“So that's why you haven't been talking to me? You were afraid I'd notice?”

“Something like that.”

“How far along?”

“It'd be about three moons now.”

Jon just stared at her. Arya wanted him to keep questioning her, to scold her, to yell at her. Anything was better than the awful silence sitting between them.

“Is it Gendry's?”

She could not meet his eyes. “Yes. It's his.”

“And he knows?”

“He knows.”

Her hand automatically came to rest on her belly. Jon's eyes flitted toward it and then looked away.

Arya opened her mouth to say something, perhaps try to assuage Jon, but just then there was a rustle at the entrance of the tent. They both turned to see who had entered. Gendry.

“Jon, I've just spoken to Davos about the -”

He stopped short when he saw them. “Oh.”

Jon stood. “You.”

“Jon,” said Arya urgently, but in two strides he was across the room and had grabbed a handful of Gendry's shirt in his fist, giving it a little shake.

“We're in the middle of a bloody war and you couldn't manage to keep your cock out of my sister?”

Realization dawned on Gendry's face. He held up his hands. “Wait –”

“Jon, stop!” said Arya, standing up. “He's not – you're – ”

Her head suddenly swam. She had stood up too quickly. Black spots blinked in and out of her vision.

“Arya?”

Her legs began to buckle and she stumbled a little, grabbing the table for support.

Jon and Gendry were there in a moment, both seizing her under her arms and guiding her back down into the chair. Arya leaned forward and let her head rest in her hands, waiting for the dizziness to ease.

“Are you all right?” Gendry sounded panicked.

“I'm fine,” Arya said. She was still a little lightheaded, but she hated being fussed over, even by Gendry. She would have minded it less if Jon hadn't been standing there.

“Does that happen often?” asked Jon.

“The maester says that I need to be careful standing up too quickly.”

“And you're still attempting to train? Arya.”

“It doesn't bother me in training,” she insisted.

“But it slows you down. Everything makes sense now. I knew it wasn't an injury. But that's not the point. Don't the both of you realize that this child will be a bastard? You of all people should want to avoid putting a child through that, Gendry!”

“We didn't do it on purpose,” said Gendry in a low voice. “It just...happened. We didn't think – ”

“Aye, that's obvious. You didn't think. And now, right in the middle of everything else, you get her pregnant. I expected better from both of you.”

They were hanging their heads like unruly children being scolded, which they were, Arya supposed. Only Jon could make her feel shame and guilt like this.

“I'm sending you back to Winterfell.”

Her head jerked up in surprise and shock.

“What? You can't!”

“You give me no other choice, Arya,” said Jon grimly. “I'll have a few of the guards pack up your things. You'll go home and you'll stay there until the baby's born. After that, we can figure out what to do next.”

“I don't want to go home.”

“I don't care what you want.”

“Arya – ” started Gendry hesitantly.

Arya scowled at him. “Shut up.”

“You can't possibly think you'll be able to remain here,” said Jon.

“I need to be fighting as long as I can. Let me stay in the camp and help others train.”

“You're in no state for that.”

“You can't do this to me!” said Arya, truly upset now.

“I can, and I am. That's my final decision.”

Jon turned toward Gendry.

“You will remain here and continue to fight. I'm not losing two of my fighting men.”

“But I – ”

“As your king, I command you to stay at the camp. That's an order.”

Gendry dipped his head. “Your Grace.”

Jon looked at Arya, and his expression made her chest hurt. She saw so many emotions in it. Disappointment. Frustration. Anger. She wanted him to keep yelling at her. It would be easier than seeing the expression on his face.

But Jon said nothing else to her before he turned and left the tent.

Gendry and Arya sat there in silence for a few moments.

Gendry was the first to break it.

“It's for the best, what he's doing.”

She glared at him. “I'm not helpless.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“Then why are you and Jon treating me like it?”

“Because you're pregnant,” he said exasperatedly. “You're carrying a baby.”

“That doesn't mean I can't – ”

“Shut up. Will you shut up?” said Gendry suddenly, and it startled her so much that she quieted. “Stop thinking about yourself. It isn't about you. It's about keeping our child safe.”

He stood up.

“Now, I don't care if you go willingly, or if I have to hit you over the head and put you in the carriage myself. I agree with Jon. You're going home.”

 

She found him sitting on his bed in his tent late that night, getting the tarnish off of a shield.

“Gendry.”

He didn't look at her.

“I knew you'd come here.”

Arya padded quietly into the tent. He put the shield on the floor to make room for her as she lowered herself onto the bed, her hand on her middle as she sat down. She huffed a little from the effort.

“Be careful,” he murmured.

“I'm careful,” she said a little defensively.

They were silent for a moment.

“I can't believe you'd be willing to stay here and risk the baby's life,” said Gendry.

“It isn't about that,” Arya countered.

“Do you even care about our child?”

“I care,” she said, though it sounded feeble coming out of her mouth.

He shook his head. “I don't believe you.”

“I do,” she insisted, and it wasn't a lie. “I do care about the baby.”

“But not enough to keep it safe.”

“I told you, it's not about that.”

“What could possibly be more important?”

Arya reached out and cupped his face in her hands.

“I can't protect you if I'm home,” she said, tears starting to prick at her eyes. “And I can't protect the baby if I'm here.”

Gendry's eyes softened a little.

“Arya.”

“Now you and Jon are asking me to choose one or the other. And I can't choose, I can't –”

Gendry leaned down and kissed her, hard, and she responded hungrily, grabbing onto him. If there was a time when she needed his steadiness, it was now.

She reached for her tunic, to tear it off. She wanted to be bare for him as soon as she could.

But he took her hand, stopping her.

“We don't have to go fast. Please. Let's enjoy it.”

“I always enjoy it,” Arya said, leaning forward and catching his lips with hers.

“You know what I mean,” he said between kisses.

He lifted her tunic up over her head, much more slowly than she had intended to do it. Her trousers came off in a similar fashion. Her smallclothes were next, the scraps of fabric looking weak and flimsy in his strong hands as he tossed them to the side.

“Your breasts are bigger,” he observed, reaching out to touch them.

“They're sore too,” she said, swatting him away.

“Right, sorry. But when they aren't -”

He froze. Arya could sense the rest of his sentence in the offing. _When they aren't...let me know_. Still speaking as if she wasn't leaving tomorrow. As if they would certainly see each other again.

Unwilling to process this, she kissed him. Gendry responded after only a moment of hesitation. Arya pulled his shirt off of him, her hands traveling to his toned chest, feeling the strong muscles underneath the roughened skin. She let out a purr.

“Hmm,” she smiled into his mouth, pulling away to look at him. “You've been training hard.”

“It's only to impress you,” he grinned.

“It's working,” she said, capturing his upper lip with both of hers, her arms coming to wrap around his neck as they deepened the kiss. She felt his hands stray to the slight curve of her belly.

Arya broke away, more out of shock than anything else, a hand flying to her middle as if to protect it. Gendry pulled his own hands away as if he'd been stung.

“I – sorry,” he said, looking guilty.

She shook her head.

“It just feels different,” she said. “But...I liked it. I think.”

He slowly put his hands back on her stomach, keeping eye contact so as to gauge her response. Arya hadn't realized how vulnerable she felt there until Gendry had touched it. She couldn't imagine allowing anyone else to touch her there. But then, she couldn't imagine allowing anyone else to touch her at all, like this, so sweetly and gently but with a certain steadiness that only Gendry possessed.

“My stomach looks strange, doesn't it,” she said, looking down at it.

“It does,” he agreed.

Arya felt heat begin to rise in her face and started to move back, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Her body had changed so significantly in the past three months, and she'd been so distracted with her physical symptoms that she'd barely given a thought to how Gendry might see her body now that she was noticeably pregnant.

Gendry's voice pulled her back to reality.

“Don't.”

He reached out and gently brought her back toward him.

“It's beautiful. You're beautiful,” he murmured, pressing one hand on her back to pull her closer, but keeping the other hand rubbing over her small belly as he kissed her.

 _Beautiful_ wasn't a word she'd heard very often throughout her life, at least not when describing her appearance. Sansa was certainly familiar with it. It was not something said of Arya. The warmth that spread through her chest at the compliment even felt a little foreign. It wasn't an awful thing to hear, Arya thought as she looped her arms around his neck, wanting her mouth to touch every corner of his. Beautiful. He thought she was beautiful. How bad was that, really?

He was beautiful, too, she thought as she buried her fingers in his dark hair. Not in the physical way, necessarily, though she certainly had much to gain from that aspect of their relationship. He was not unattractive by any means. But it was the way that he seemed to fit so seamlessly into every part of her. Few things in this world were as beautiful as that.

She undid Gendry's belt and removed his trousers, discarding them. Then she straddled him, pressing him flat on his back.

“Oof,” he said, feigning discomfort. “You're heavier.”

Arya smacked him.

“If you're not careful, I'll crush you,” she said.

“I believe it,” he said.

A peal of heat ran down her spine and she grinned, leaning down and nipping the skin on his neck. His hands traveled up her neck and into her hair, running his fingers through it and causing little bolts of lightning to shoot up into her fingers and toes. She positioned herself over him and sank down onto him, leaning her head back and panting eagerly as she heard him groan.

Slowly she began to grind her hips into his. He put his hand on her shoulder, his fingers curling as she moved over him, her forehead barely brushing his. His moaning only got her more worked up. Only she could do this for him, she thought as she moved over him, faster and faster. The thought made her feel powerful.

And then he came, with a last groan, and she spilled over on top of him, her head coming to rest in the crook of his neck. They sat there quietly, letting their breathing return to normal.

“Arya,” Gendry sighed.

“Gendry,” she murmured into his skin.

His hands came to rest on the small of her back.

“I want to always remember this,” Gendry said. "It might be the last time we ever...well..."

She froze.

“Stop. Stop it.”

“Arya,” he said, his voice breaking a little.

She shook her head, knowing what was next. “No.”

“I love you,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

The tears came before she could stop them.

“Tell me you love me, Arya.”

Arya's voice trembled. “I won't. I won't say it so you can go do something stupid.”

Then she really started to cry. “I can't, I won't.”

She realized he had started to cry too, and she kissed him again, furiously. He grabbed a fistful of her hair as she sobbed angrily into his mouth, digging her nails into the skin on his shoulders, hard enough to draw blood. She wanted to hurt him.

Gendry sat up, still holding onto her as they bit and clawed at each other. After a few minutes of this, he grabbed and held both of her arms, tear tracks staining his cheeks.

“You have to promise me you'll go on if...if I...”

 _...don't come back._ She sobbed.

“No.” She wouldn't hear the goodbyes in his voice.

“Arya – ”

“ _No!_ ”

“Arya.” He gave her a little shake. “If this is the last time – ”

She threw her arms around him, clinging as hard as she could.

“I already lost you once,” she cried, her voice choked with tears. “Don't ask me to give you up again.”

They clung to each other with every last bit of strength they had, hard enough for their veins to connect, for their bones to fuse together, for their very skin to merge.

 

Neither of them slept, but instead spent the remainder of the night in each other's arms, their bodies tangled together under the blankets.

Arya's head leaned on Gendry's shoulder, her hand on his chest, feeling his heart thump beneath her palm. Gendry had a protective arm around her shoulders, his hand resting over hers.

“Arya,” he said.

“Hmm?” she adjusted a little against him.

“Promise me you'll love our baby.”

“I do love it,” she said.

“I mean it, Arya. Don't blame the child if I don't come back. And don't blame yourself. I made a decision too.”

“But you are going to come back.”

“You have to be prepared if I don't. Promise me.”

Arya let the silence hang there a moment.

“I promise,” she said finally.

Gendry kissed her forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes.

 

A few hours before first light, everything was ready for her journey. Jon was not careless enough to let Arya ride a horse pregnant, so he'd had a few guards fix a carriage to one of the horses instead. As much as Arya hated feeling pampered, she was in no fit state to argue it. It was going to be difficult enough to get back in Jon's good graces without her causing any more conflict.

Jon and Gendry saw her to the carriage.

“I've written a letter for Sansa to read when you get there,” Jon told her, pressing a scroll into her hand. “Be sure to give it to her.”

Arya pocketed it. “I will.”

They looked at each other.

“Don't stray too far from home,” he joked softly.

She shook her head. “Never again.”

Jon leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, staying there for a minute or two before finally embracing her.

I will not cry, Arya thought furiously as she put her arms around him, swallowing her tears. Not in front of Jon, and not in front of Gendry. She wouldn't let them see her heart being torn in half, veins and muscle and sinew all laid bare. If she splintered, she would fall apart.

Gendry came up to her when Jon had backed away. His eyes were sad as he placed his hands on her arms.

“Be sure you go see Maester Wolkan when you get back,” he said.

She nodded, and Gendry pulled her into his arms.

Arya held onto him for several minutes, trying to drink as much of him in before she had to let go. She inhaled the scent of stone and solidarity, pressing her cheek to his and closing her eyes, committing every inch of him to memory.

“Please come home,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear.

He held onto her more tightly.

“My lady,” one of the soldiers operating the carriage stepped forward. “It's time.”

Arya looked into Gendry's eyes. She could swear she saw the beginnings of tears in his and she swallowed again. She _would – not – cry._

Gendry put his hands on her shoulders.

“Off with you,” he said.

She kissed him. After several moments, when he began to pull away, she pulled him back for another kiss. And another. And another.

When she could bear it no longer, she turned and walked away toward the carriage. She refused to look at them as she climbed inside, the door closing behind her.

Arya felt the carriage start to move. She sat there a moment, allowing the pain and the anguish to cover her, to hit her in wave after wave. Suddenly, she was crying, gasping with sobs, her arms braced over her belly as if to keep herself from coming apart.

And Gendry watched the carriage ride away, praying to any existing gods that it wouldn't be the last time he did so.

 


	6. an inconvenience

Gray light began to dawn over the hills of the North, creeping over the blankets of yet untouched snow.

In a tent in a battle camp not far away, Jon Snow sat up in his bed.

He rubbed his eyes, blinking in the light of morning. He felt as if he had not slept at all. Oh, he'd been asleep, sure, but he hadn't rested. He felt as if his head were still spinning from all that had transpired the previous day.

Arya was pregnant.

He still couldn't believe it. Arya was not a creature of logic, he knew. She was much more likely to follow her feelings than her brain. Not to say that she wasn't intelligent. In the times they were in, surely she would have taken better care that something like this wouldn't happen?

He started at Davos' voice from outside his tent.

“Jon?”

“Let him in,” Jon called to his guard, and Davos came through the tent flap, a scroll in his hand.

“There's been a raven.”

Jon took the scroll. He turned it over to see the seal, which was stamped with three dragons curling over one another. Daenerys.

“Will you want me to oversee training again today?” Davos asked him.

“No, I'll do it. Thank you.”

The older man nodded, and withdrew.

Jon broke the seal and crinkled open the scroll.

 

_Jon -_

 

_Keeping camp in a separate location was a good idea. My dragons are not well-adjusted to the frigid temperatures of the North. They are thriving much better here in White Harbor._

_I am grateful you sent a raven beforehand, as the Manderlys were not sure about letting our men rest here. Tyrion was finally able to convince Lord Wylis of our allegiance. They seem to trust him more than Jorah, Missandei, or myself. Grey Worm and Varys both stayed in Dragonstone; Grey Worm to oversee supply shipment and Varys to lobby for support. The Manderlys finally allowed us to stay here, though they still seemed cautious and ready to defend themselves should we betray their trust. Since receiving your raven, however, they have been considerably kinder. Lord Wylis hosted me, Tyrion, Missandei, and Jorah for supper one evening. He is perhaps the widest man I've ever seen, but very friendly and easy to talk to. We also met his wife Leona, and his two daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla. They seem a loving, close-knit family, and they spoke highly of your sister Sansa. After meeting her, I can understand why. According to Lord Wyman, Wylis' father who writes from Winterfell reasonably often, Sansa rules Winterfell with poise and grace, and they are proud of her. They are intrigued by Bran, as are the rest of us. They did not seem to have much news on him except that he is Sansa's main counsel during their meetings. I remember Sansa mentioning that he refused to be a lord, and yet there he is, doing lord's duties. Duty offsets desire in his case, I suppose, though it's hard to tell if he has any desires at all. He seemed rather blank and dispirited when I met him._

_Out of your siblings, though, I think the most about Arya. I know it isn't right to feel more toward one of your siblings than the others, but I feel that Arya and I have the most in common out of her, Sansa, and Bran. I miss her determined and spirited presence in our camp. Wylla Manderly in particular seemed quite knowledgeable about Arya's ability in battle, and spoke so admirably of her. It gave me a bit of pride to know that Arya's skills have not fallen on deaf ears. I'm sure she is serving you well in your camp. I hope to see her again someday soon._

_If nothing else, take comfort in that the Manderlys still seem to be your staunch allies, and they are hosting us graciously. In a few weeks, Jorah will start to lead my men toward Winterfell, to help them gradually adjust to the frigid temperatures of the North, as well as protect the other Northern lords, your home, and your family._

_I hope to see you soon, my love._

 

_Daenerys_

 

Jon set the scroll down on the table, smiling a little in spite of himself. Daenerys certainly could turn a phrase. She certainly could do a lot of things well. It both warmed him to hear from her and caused him to ache for her presence here in the camp.

Someday soon, she would be here. They'd decided they needed to let Dany's dragons and her men adjust gradually to the cold instead of placing them north of Winterfell immediately. They had mutually feared that this would stunt their progress in battle, so White Harbor had been the happy medium.

His smile faded as he thought over what Daenerys had said about Arya. It was such a recent development that she understandably had no idea that he had sent Arya back to Winterfell. How could she? Daenerys probably suspected pregnancy of Arya as much as he had before he found out.

His head spun with the complications this created for everyone involved. The Northern lords weren't going to like this. Sansa was already having difficulties with them, as she'd told him in a particularly heated letter. The news that Jon was actually a trueborn Targaryen had shaken them, and according to Sansa, they grew more restless in his absence by the day.

What was Sansa going to think about all this? It was already proving to be difficult to get back in Sansa's good graces as she was still cross with him for bending the knee to Daenerys behind her back. Evidently Sansa was running Winterfell just fine in his absence. She had implored him to put more trust in her, to stop trying to protect her from things he could not protect her from. He was starting to wonder why he struggled with both of these things.

In any case, he wondered if Sansa would berate Arya for being pregnant. They had both told him of what had transpired when Arya had finally returned to Winterfell, and how Littlefinger had plotted to turn them against each other, resulting in several arguments that were only resolved when Bran had exposed Littlefinger's treachery to his sisters, revealing who was really behind all that had befallen the Starks. Even before that, he'd known of their tendency to bicker and argue. Sansa was a proper lady, while Arya seemed determined to be the opposite of that. But they seemed to have reached some sort of understanding between each other. This was only confirmed in his mind when Sansa had written him saying that she, Bran, and Arya had taken down Littlefinger in tandem.

Jon had had to admit that he was a bit proud when he received Sansa's letter informing him of Littlefinger's execution. But he'd first been concerned when he read that Arya had carried it out. Jon knew Arya was a plucky little thing, as she always had been, but he had not known of her conquests, and how hardened she had become. She'd created a list, as Sansa had informed him, of people she intended to kill. And she had crossed many names from her list. It had been difficult to imagine Arya as a killer until he saw her skills in training. She was infamous in their camp, and not just for being the youngest Stark daughter. She'd created a name for herself separate from that.

And now, it seemed that was all for naught. He'd just sent her home, away from where he knew she wanted to be: out in the thick of the battle. It wasn't the fighting she loved, necessarily, but the satisfaction of striking down those who had wronged them. He knew she would relish killing Cersei Lannister if she was ever fortunate enough to cross that name from her list.

That would be considerably more difficult for Arya now, assuming she survived the pregnancy and birth of her child. Her mother Catelyn had given birth to four other children besides her, with virtually no issue, but her grandmother Minisa had died in childbirth. So he had some reason to feel concerned.

He felt bittersweet at the thought of Catelyn. Now that the truth was out, and Ned had been faithful to her all along, she would have had no more reason to despise him. He wondered what she would think of him now. He wondered if she'd feel remorseful.

“Your Grace?”

The voice of his guard startled Jon out of his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Maester Helliweg is here. He wishes to speak to you.”

“Send him in.”

The maester emerged through the tent flap.

“King Jon,” he said, dipping his head.

“Please, come sit down,” said Jon, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the table. “And you don't have to call me King Jon.”

Maester Helliweg took a seat.

“Your sister did not wish me to call her Lady Arya, either,” he said, smiling a little. “I see humility runs in your family. The Starks always were good at it."

“I actually wanted to talk to you about my sister,” said Jon.

“Yes,” said the maester. “That is why I am here as well.”

Jon looked at him.

“She's pregnant.”

Maester Helliweg nodded. “She is.”

“How long have you known?”

“About as long as she has, Your Grace. She's three moons along now, though by the time she reaches Winterfell she will be closer to four.”

“Has she been to see you recently?”

“A week ago. I had asked her to come see me every so often so I could examine her and make sure she was progressing normally.”

“And is she?”

“Oh, yes. Everything is moving along nicely, from what I am able to tell.”

Jon felt a sudden rush of gratitude toward the maester.

“Thank you for what you've done for her,” he said.

“It was my honor, Your Grace,” said Maester Helliweg graciously.

Jon looked down at his desk.

“Before long,” he said, “This camp will start to notice that Arya's tent is gone, and so is she.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I have heard whispers already.”

Jon looked back up at Maester Helliweg.

“I can't tell my soldiers she's pregnant.”

The maester shook his head.

“I assumed as much, and I have been giving it some thought, if it please you. Here is what we can tell them...”

 

Jon felt many pairs of eyes on him as he walked into the clearing with Maester Helliweg. He mostly watched the training from afar. Rarely did he ever come onto the training ground. And Maester Helliweg never came to training at all.

“Good morning,” Jon said, addressing the group of soldiers as he and the maester took their place in front of them.

“Where's Lady Arya?” questioned Grenn almost immediately from nearby. “Her tent's gone. Is she all right?” Jon heard sounds of agreement from some of the other soldiers.

“That's what we're here to talk about,” he replied, glancing at the maester. “I'm sure you all have noticed that my sister has not been herself in training lately.”

Jon spotted Gendry, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away again. Maester Helliweg stepped forward.

“Lady Arya informed all of you that she had suffered a muscle strain,” he said. “But upon closer examination, I discovered that she has broken two ribs and sustained severe bruising. She then confessed to me that she'd been kicked by her horse one evening after training, and she had kept quiet because she believed it would heal on its own. As such, her injury prevents her from fighting effectively. At my recommendation, King Jon has decided to send her home to Winterfell.”

Murmurs swept through the small crowd. Jon spoke up.

“This was not an easy decision. My sister is a valuable fighter, one of the best we have. But Arya is also stubborn, as you all know,” he said, to a few quiet chuckles. “If she had remained here, she would have tried to continue training normally. Maester Helliweg fears this would cause irreversible damage. I would rather my sister go home and heal now than stay here and have to heal for the rest of her life.”

As Jon looked around at the other soldiers, he noticed, with some relief, that many of them seemed to believe this story. A few of them actually looked rather impressed.

“She still tried to fight with two broken ribs? Gods. She's got more guts than I do.”

“Still the best fighter in the camp with that injury. Lady Arya puts us to shame sometimes.”

“Tough little thing, isn't she? Got the stamina of ten knights twice her size.”

Others, including Podrick, were nodding seriously, seemingly glad for an explanation.

“So that's why she was off,” Jon saw Culler murmur to Braddock nearby.

Braddock nodded. “Come to think of it, that horse of hers is a nervous one. She must have come up from behind and spooked him.”

Still others did not look convinced. The Hound scoffed quietly from nearby, but did not say anything. Jon watched disbelief flicker in Brienne's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

“You couldn't have cared for her here, Maester Helliweg?” piped up another soldier, Kean.

“All I could have done was numb the pain, and to do that, I would have had to administer milk of the poppy. This would have made her drowsy, and therefore unfit for any sort of combat. Milk of the poppy would not have solved the problem. If you do not allow bones to heal themselves, the injuries sustained may become permanent, and I'm sure the last thing any of us want is for Arya to be out of commission for good. The best thing for her is to be home, resting somewhere she is more protected.”

Other questions started to pop up from the group, but Jon stepped forward, raising a hand.

“Anyone else with questions or concerns may discuss them with me or with the maester at a later time. It's time to begin training.”

Maester Helliweg dipped his head, then met Jon's eyes. Jon stared back briefly, offering silent thanks. The maester turned and walked back toward his own tent without another word.

As Jon turned and walked back to the edge of the clearing, he heard whispering from behind him, and hoped that his story would hold up. It had to. For Arya's sake.

 

As Gendry watched Jon walk away, he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

Both he and Arya been so wrapped up in saying their goodbyes that they had scarcely given a second thought to what the story was going to be about Arya being sent home. Gendry was grateful that both Jon and the maester had come forward with an explanation. It wasn't an airtight one, and not everyone had believed it readily, but it was all they had to go on. He shook his head to clear it and prepared to begin training. Gendry had his hammer today, and he could not help feeling somewhat excited about it. After all of the recent stress, he needed to hit a few things.

In any case, training was a considerably more dull affair without Arya around, since she was one of the most interesting soldiers to watch fight. Gendry noticed, however, that other soldiers seemed have gained some newfound confidence. Now that they weren't going to be bested by a young woman much smaller than they, their motivation to train seemed to have returned. Gendry had to suppress a grin at this. So many large, husky soldiers and nearly all of them had lost to Arya. Even when absent, she was the best fighter in the camp. As one of the soldiers had said, she had the stamina of ten knights twice her size. Gods, he was proud.

After training ended that day, Gendry spotted Jon murmur something to Davos before turning away from the group, heading back in the direction of his tent.

Gendry tailed him for a few minutes, until he was sure that no more soldiers were around.

“Jon. Jon, wait.”

Jon stopped walking and turned around.

“Gendry,” he said curtly.

“About what you and the maester said. Before training. I just wanted to –”

“If we're going to speak about this, let's do it in private,” Jon interrupted, his voice low as his eyes darted around, making sure no one was watching.

Gendry dipped his head. “Of course.”

He followed Jon to his tent.

“No one comes in,” Jon told his guard that waited outside. The man nodded and moved in front of the tent flap as soon as they were both through.

Jon turned toward Gendry. His face was not kind.

“What do you want?”

“Thank you for doing that,” Gendry said immediately.

“It was the maester's idea,” said Jon shortly. “And anyway, I didn't do it for you. I did it to preserve her dignity. I'd rather not hear rumors about how Lady Arya got herself pregnant with a bastard in the middle of the long winter. And you know these men, they gossip like old maids. I'm not letting this ruin her reputation with them.”

Gendry looked at the ground, his face burning.

“I never meant to do this to her.”

He heard Jon sigh, and felt safe enough to look back up.

“It's done,” Jon said, and indeed some of the harsh edge in his voice had faded. “I've sent her home. That's all I can do for now. All you can do is continue training and doing your work.”

“Let me go back to Winterfell,” implored Gendry. “To watch over her. You don't need me here.”

“You know I can't do that. The other soldiers are suspicious enough as it is. And I do need you here, to forge and repair weapons, and to fight with your hammer.”

Gendry looked back down at the ground, his heart sinking. He had known that begging Jon to let him return to Winterfell wouldn't work.

“I hope you realize that we can't afford for you to make any more thoughtless decisions,” Jon continued. “Because of your choices, I've had to send my sister and one of my best fighters home. Who, in case you forgot, is still a child. Just like you.”

“But she isn't a child,” said Gendry. “Not anymore. She's got more strength than most men I know. Even after Harrenhal, she's been through so much. They blinded her in Braavos. They stabbed her and beat her bloody. And she's still standing.”

“I know what she's been through.”

“Then you know that you can't treat her like a little girl. She isn't one. She wants to be taken seriously, and she wants you to take her seriously most of all. There's no one means more to her than you, Jon. Not even me, really.”

Jon stared at Gendry for another moment or two before sitting down at his desk. He gestured for Gendry to sit down across from him. Gendry obliged.

“Didn't you think?” Jon asked, and the disappointment in his voice was painful for Gendry. “About what might happen if you slept with her?”

“Afterward, yeah, but...” Gendry ran a hand through his hair uncomfortably.

“Does she _want_ a baby?”

Jon's question seemed genuinely curious, though Gendry sensed a bit of blame in his voice.

“She didn't plan for it to happen,” he ventured on, deciding to ignore this. “Neither did I. But I know, somewhere in her, she wants the baby.”

“And how can you know that?”

Gendry took a deep breath.

“Back when we found out, Arya thought it might be better to do away with it. Maybe I didn't like the idea, but I supported her. I didn't know what else we should do. I followed her to the maester's tent because I knew she would go ask for that tea she told me about. I waited outside, the whole time feeling terrible about what she was doing. Realizing that maybe I wanted this child, even though we didn't plan for it. Just when I thought everything was over, she came running out of the tent. She didn't want to get rid of the baby. She couldn't. And I didn't want her to. So we decided to keep it.”

Jon looked at him, his expression unreadable.

“Have you really thought about your child being a bastard?” he said, after a few minutes. “What if she has a boy? He'll grow up just like we did.”

“No, he won't,” Gendry countered. “You know better than anyone that Arya doesn't care who's a bastard and who's not. And neither will I. I'll love him. She will too.”

The silence hung there a few moments, growing steadily more uncomfortable by the second. Finally Jon took a scroll from atop his desk and picked up his quill.

“I have work to do,” he said.

Gendry stood, dipping his head. “Your Grace.”

He was nearly out of the tent when he heard Jon from behind him.

“If you've told Arya you'll see this through, but you scarper after the baby is born, I'll come find you and cut your balls off.”

“I won't leave,” said Gendry, not least because he believed that Jon would actually do this. “I swear it.”

Jon nodded.

“Go on, then.”

 

Gendry was barely out of Jon's tent when he heard someone call for him.

“Gendry.”

He turned to see Davos approaching.

“Walk with me, son,” the elder man said once he had reached Gendry, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Gendry and Davos made it a reasonable distance from Jon's tent and any possible listening ears before Davos spoke again.

“So, how far along is Arya?”

Gendry stopped walking.

“How did you –”

“I trust you remember that I had a son. I remember the signs. Marya had them too; the nausea, the exhaustion. She wasn't training to fight White Walkers, of course, but the symptoms are just the same anywhere.”

Davos didn't look upset as Jon had. Gendry felt the nervous knot in his stomach loosen a bit.

“So, you never answered the question. How far along?”

“A few moons now,” said Gendry. “Three or four.”

Davos nodded. “I would have guessed as much.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Only to people who have been around pregnant women before,” said Davos. “That little story that Jon and Maester Helliweg cooked up this morning seemed to convince most of our camp.”

“Not everyone. There will still be rumors, I bet.”

“Yes, well, you can't avoid that,” Davos shrugged. “But if anyone does discover the truth, it won't be from me.”

“Thank you,” Gendry murmured.

He looked down at the ground.

“I've ruined her life,” he said, and he felt shame and guilt burning under his skin as he said it. “She wants to be out here fighting, not home in Winterfell.”

“It's much safer for her and for your child to be home in Winterfell,” conceded Davos. “You agree with that, don't you?”

“Yes,” Gendry affirmed, a little begrudgingly. “I don't want her to stay here while she's pregnant. But...”

He hesitated.

“I might never see her again.”

Speaking the words aloud caused actual pain in Gendry's chest. He missed Arya so sorely already. Not just her determined and spirited presence around the camp, but her smell. Her dark hair. Her smile. Her quiet laugh that only happened for him, when they were alone. And recently, he missed the slight curve of her stomach, the evidence that she carried his child.

He felt another twist of pain as he realized he might never see what his baby looked like. If it were a boy or a girl. Who it took more after, him or Arya. What sort of things his child was skilled in. What sort of interests the child would have. Gendry felt an odd sort of grief for this child that he might never get to know. He'd made Arya swear to him she'd take care of the baby if he did not make it out of this war. Would she keep her promise? Would she have difficulty loving the child if he died?

Davos was silent.

“What do you think?” Gendry asked him, desperate for a different perspective than his own bleak one. “About the whole thing, I mean.”

“I'll be honest. I think your timing is shit,” said Davos matter-of-factly. “But it's done. The best thing you can do now for her, and for your child, is to fight as hard as you can. The sooner we can end this war, the safer they will both be.”

Gendry nodded, the words strengthening his resolve. Davos was right. If he could not help Arya and the baby in Winterfell, he could help them here. And he would.

Davos put both hands on Gendry's shoulders.

“Nothing happens exactly how we plan it, son. All we can do is accept it and move on.”

 

Davos showed up at Jon's tent for the second time that day shortly before supper rations.

“Jon.”

Jon himself came to the open entrance of the tent.

“Yes, Ser Davos?” he said wearily.

“I wish to speak with you about this morning,” said Davos.

“You and the rest of the soldiers,” said Jon, moving aside so that Davos could stand next to him. They both looked out at the camp, watching soldiers begin to trickle toward the rations tent.

Davos lowered his voice. “I know why you sent Arya home.”

“And why is that?”

“Because she’s pregnant.”

Jon glanced briefly at him, then let out a heavy sigh.

“How did you find out?”

“Oh, it's easy enough to tell. I had a wife and a son, remember?”

Jon had forgotten. “I trust you'll keep the truth a secret.”

“To the grave, if necessary.”

Jon nodded. “Thank you.”

Davos dipped his head.

They did not speak again for a few moments before Davos broke the silence.

“I've spoken to the boy. He's upset.”

“He should be.”

“You're like a brother to him, Jon. He hates to think he's disappointed you.”

“It isn't about disappointing me,” said Jon, turning toward Davos at this. “He got her pregnant at the worst possible time for him to do so.”

“Well, yes,” agreed Davos. “He did. But it's done. There's no going back now.”

“How can you be all right with this?” Jon asked incredulously.

“I don't think they made a smart decision,” said Davos frankly. “It complicates things. But there's nothing to be gained by punishing them again and again. Gendry already feels guilty, and Arya is already on her way back to Winterfell. There isn't much more to be done about it.”

Jon heaved another deep sigh. Davos, as usual, was exercising his way of delivering truths without any sort of malicious undertone. Jon had thought it would give him some comfort to know that Gendry felt guilty and regretful instead of prideful, but it only made him feel more miserable.

“Perhaps I shouldn't have sent her home,” he said, a little regretfully.

“No, I do think that was a good idea,” said Davos. “She wasn't going to be able to hide it for long, especially because she's small. You did what you thought was best, given the circumstances. You're a good brother to her, Jon. To them both, really.”

The crowd moving toward the rations tent was growing larger. They would have to go in soon.

“He'll be a good father,” murmured Davos.

Jon looked at him.

“My father was good,” he replied. “Didn't stop me from growing up a bastard.”

 

The ride home to Winterfell was much longer than Arya would have liked.

They'd been traveling for three days, only a fourth of the way to Winterfell. They would stop soon to gather water and let the horses rest. Arya could barely wait to get out of the carriage.

Perhaps if she hadn't been pregnant, the trip might have been easier to bear, although she supposed that if she weren't pregnant she wouldn't be traveling home in the first place. Sitting for such a long period of time with naught to do but sleep and stare out the small window made Arya increasingly restless. Her legs were stiff enough for her to want to get out of the carriage and walk the rest of the way to Winterfell. At least if she were unencumbered she would be riding the horse herself. She did miss the rush of the wind in her hair and the sound of the horse's hooves pounding against the earth. There were many pre-pregnancy activities that Arya missed.

After several more minutes, Arya finally felt the carriage come to a stop. The door opened a few moments later to reveal one of the soldiers.

“My lady, we have stopped at Long Lake. May we do anything for you?”

“Are you going to let me out of here for a moment?” she asked, a little grumpily.

“You may get out and walk around for a few minutes if you wish, but King Jon gave us strict orders to limit your activity.”

“Yes, thank you. I know he did. Help me out of here.”

Arya took the soldier's hand and he helped her out of the carriage. She could have cried when her feet hit solid ground. To be out of that stuffy carriage was the most free she'd felt in a long time. Arya filled her lungs with the chilly, smoky Northern air, and a peace flowed through her.

Arya noticed that the soldiers had set up a small fire nearby, undoubtedly giving the air its smoky quality. She could smell meat cooking and her belly rumbled in hunger.

She approached their group, earning her astonished stares from the seven soldiers sitting there.

“Lady Arya,” one of them said, sounding surprised.

“May I sit?” she asked.

“Yes, of course...” Two others immediately started shuffling to make room for her.

The first soldier stood and offered his hand. “Lady Arya, allow me to – ”

“Don't be silly. I can do it myself,” said Arya, though she huffed a little as she lowered herself down onto the log. “And stop calling me a lady. It's just Arya.”

“Yes, La – I mean, Arya,” said the soldier, dipping his head as he sat back down.

They passed her some of the rabbit they had cooked. She bit off a chunk and looked around at them.

“Do you miss your homes?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” admitted the first soldier, and he elbowed the one next to him. “Me and Terren here live over in Hornwood. Beautiful forest, that. I used to take him hunting out there with me.”

“If you can call what you did hunting,” snorted Terren.

“And just what do you mean by that?”

“Melvan's trying to impress the lady, fancying himself a real hunter,” Terren said, to snickers from the group. “You couldn't even shoot a tree.”

“I was better than that!” Melvan insisted. “I shot that one rabbit. We feasted on it for a day!”

“That's because it was already injured and could barely move...”

Arya smiled as the other soldiers launched into conversation about their respective homes. It was comforting to hear about something as normal as the forests of Hornwood or the lovely weather in White Harbor or the crashing sea near Bear Island. It kept her mind off of things for a while.

A few hours passed, and by this time the group had dispersed into smaller units, sharpening swords, chatting softly, gathering water from the lake, sparring with one another. Arya felt envious watching their swords clang against each other. Her muscles ached so badly for the rush of water dancing, but she knew she'd never get away with doing it here. Though the soldiers were able to rest as she was, they had her on a constant watch, with one soldier observing her at all times. Jon really knew her well, she mused. He must have predicted that she would be resistant. It was truly maddening, having a pair of eyes on her at all times, and most of all, it prevented her from distracting the soldiers enough to slip into the nearby forests undetected. She was so desperate to get away she had fleeting thoughts of killing them. But she'd caused Jon enough trouble. The last thing any of them needed was her becoming a fugitive.

After she could no longer bear watching the soldiers practice sparring without her being able to join in, Arya finally settled on a stone near the bank of the lake, staring out at the water. The sound of the horses drinking nearby and the gentle breeze rustling through the oak trees calmed her, and she closed her eyes, sighing deeply. She let her hand travel to her stomach and she let it rest there, letting the firmness of the muscles underneath calm her as only they could.

From under her hand, Arya felt an odd stirring.

She frowned. It had been so slight that she might have imagined it. Perhaps the small bit of rabbit she'd eaten had not agreed with her. She hoped against hope the nausea was not coming back to haunt her. The maester had told her that was over for now.

Then, the movement happened again, and there was no mistaking it this time: a gentle swooping feeling, in the lower part of her abdomen.

She stood, with some difficulty, and made her way to the carriage.

“I'm turning in,” she said to the group at large, and climbed in without another word.

 

The next morning found Arya back in her same spot right in front of the lake.

Almost immediately after she had gotten back in the carriage and lay down on the seat, she had fallen asleep. She could not really remember what had happened before or after she'd gone to bed. Somewhere in her, she'd had a bad dream. Something that had truly frightened her. She couldn't exactly figure out what it had been, so she shrugged it off. Arya did not have nightmares often. In fact, she didn't dream at all anymore.

From inside her belly, Arya suddenly felt a strangely familiar swooping feeling, like a wing brushing against the skin of her womb.

She felt fear tighten in her chest as she realized that her nightmare last night had not been a nightmare at all. This is what had frightened her; this growing, living, moving thing inside her was real now. She could no longer deny it. In a few moons' time it would have developed hands, feet, a face. A heart. A soul. One that she would be expected to care for and nurture. As if she had any idea how to do that.

 _I'm its mother,_ she thought.

The word overwhelmed her, and she quickly pushed it from her mind.

Arya jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“I apologize for startling you, my lady. We are about to leave.”

She nodded. The soldier's eyes traveled down to the hand Arya had placed firmly on her stomach.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded again.

“I'm fine,” she said, patting her stomach once. "Rabbit isn't sitting well."

Arya glanced at the other soldiers, so she could be sure they were distracted. Then she leaned forward toward the soldier standing next to her.

“Help me up?” she asked.

He offered her a hand and Arya took it. She stood and walked briskly past the soldier with a muttered “thanks.” She knew he might think her rude, but she would not let the other soldiers see. They would never leave her alone if she showed weakness. She climbed inside the carriage and lowered herself back down into her seat. The door closed beside her, and after a moment or two of last-minute preparation outside, she heard the crack of the reins, and the carriage began to move.

From within Arya, the stirring started again.

She rested both of her hands on her stomach, closing her eyes and taking a few breaths to calm herself.

_I know you think you can ignore the baby, Arya. But you can't._

Arya bit her lip and stared out of the tiny window next to her, trying not to think of Gendry and thinking of nothing else.

 

Out in the Godswood of Winterfell, the smallest of smiles crept onto Brandon Stark's face.

Arya was coming home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me FOREVER. But I sincerely hope you all enjoyed it. I have no idea when the next chapter will be up, but I hope it will be soon! -llhs


	7. author's note

Hey guys!

Just wanted to leave a quick note on here to let you know that this story will continue and is still in progress. The next chapter is almost done. I've been a little bit stuck as far as the plot is concerned, and that's why it's taking so long. I'm sort of writing the next few chapters in tandem, since they all sort of play off of each other in a way.

If you have any ideas for plot, I would love to hear them.

There's a whole lot of great story coming your way. Stay tuned!

-llhs


	8. an efflorescence

“Mama. Mama...”

A quiet voice permeated into Sansa Stark's consciousness, and she felt a warm weight next to her. She stirred, cracking an eye open, and saw two big, dark irises staring into hers.

Sansa blinked a little, adjusting her focus. Slowly, the eyes were joined by a toothless, drooling smile, a button nose, and a head of black-brown curls. A small hand reached out and touched her face.

She smiled. Robb.

“Good morning,” Sansa beamed at her son.

She supposed his cradle should be closer to the wall as opposed to right up against her bed, but Sansa couldn't stand him sleeping away from her. It was a comfort that she had retained from Robb's newborn days, and she just hadn't been able to shake herself of it yet.

Sansa much preferred this way of being woken up, anyway. Surprisingly enough, he didn't usually climb up onto the bed. Most days Robb woke her by crying plaintively or, recently, babbling “Mama, Mama, Mama...” from his cradle until she was conscious enough to hear him. He'd just learned the word, and he seemed to revel in the attention he received as a result of it. Sansa reveled in it too. _Mama,_ she thought. _I'm Mama._ The thought warmed her, as she assumed motherhood's joys only could. Even so, she knew she would have to move the cradle away from the bed soon. Robb was big enough now that he was taking his first steps, and he was getting better at climbing.

Robb's chubby hand rested on Sansa's cheek almost wonderingly as he looked at her. She covered it with a few of her fingers. Her son then seemed to obtain a burst of energy as he threw his head back and cackled, flopping onto her chest and knocking the breath out of his mother as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck. Sansa laughed, a rare sound, and her hand came to rest on his back, patting lightly. She pressed a kiss to his temple.

Having Robb had done strange things to her, she often realized. They were well into the long Night by this point, with two of her family members out to war and one stripped away to a shell of his former self. And here she was, laughing as if she didn't have a care in the world. She almost felt guilty. But it was hard not to smile or laugh when Robb was with her. Sometimes Sansa didn't quite let herself believe that the seed of a man who had caused her unimaginable suffering could be so utterly separate from his father. Robb had his off days, like any other child, but at his best he was sweet and affectionate, with a winning smile and a contagious laugh. Blessings heaped upon blessings that Sansa did not take for granted.

A quiet knock sounded from the door, at which time Robb also decided to sit up and squeal happily into his mother's face.

“Hush, darling,” Sansa murmured, turning toward the door. “Yes?”

“Lady Sansa,” came the voice of her guard from behind the door.

“Come in.”

The guard entered the room.

“I'm sorry to disturb you and your son so early, my lady,” he said, looking faintly embarrassed as Sansa sat up slowly, adjusting Robb against her as he took a handful of her hair in his chubby fist. “There is a carriage at the gate awaiting entry.”

“A carriage?” Sansa inquired.

“Yes. It's your sister.”

“Arya?” Sansa's veins ran cold, her grip on Robb tightening. She felt her son stiffen and whimper a little at the sudden movement. “Is she all right? What happened?”

“She seems fine, my lady,” said the guard reassuringly, raising a hand. “No illness or injury that I could tell. And she did not appear upset or agitated.”

Sansa slowly settled back against the headboard, some of the air returning to her lungs. Her son gave another uncertain mewl and she murmured quiet comfort, petting him.

“But why is she back in Winterfell?”

“I do not know,” the guard admitted. “She only asked me to fetch you.”

It was odd, indeed. Only a matter of considerable urgency would bring Arya back to Winterfell without prior notice. Sansa absentmindedly ran her fingers through Robb's dark curls, attempting to calm herself. What had happened? Had someone died? Why hadn't Jon written her ahead of time?

“If I may, Lady Sansa,” said the guard, breaking into her thoughts. “I can fetch Maester Wolkan to look after your son.”

Sansa nodded.

“Please do.”

The guard nodded and closed the door.

Sansa shut her eyes, holding Robb close to her, dreading going to meet whatever news came with the carriage down in the courtyard.

 

Arya pulled her cloak more tightly around her as she waited for the guard to come back with Sansa, wondering just what in seven hells she was going to say.

Before Arya had gone off to fight, she and Sansa had begun to take strides toward repairing their strained relationship. It hadn't been easy at first. They'd fought a few times almost immediately after Arya had returned to Winterfell. It wasn't until after Littlefinger's death that it had become clear where Sansa's loyalties were. It became easier to forgive her after that. They'd both changed. Any squabbling they had done as children didn't matter anymore.

A week or so after Littlefinger's execution, Arya had wandered over to Sansa's chambers during the night, unable to sleep. Sansa had asked her if this happened often, to which Arya replied that it had occurred fairly regularly since their father had died and had only been accentuated by the Waif's attempt on her life in Braavos. From there, before either of them knew what was happening, everything spilled out. From both of them. Arya told Sansa of her escape from King's Landing, and everything that had befallen her from that point on. She told her sister about Harrenhal and Gendry, about the Faceless Men, about the Hound. In turn, Sansa had told Arya about all she had suffered at the hands of Joffrey and Cersei, how Littlefinger had whisked her away only to sell and use her, and about Ramsay's cruelty. The conversation had ended in a tearful, apologetic embrace. They had certainly been closer since then, despite the occasional misunderstandings and scuffs that didn't matter. They still did not always see eye-to-eye on everything, but Arya was learning not to say whatever came to her mind in that moment, and Sansa seemed to be trying to do the same. The sobering fact that they were two of the three remaining members of their family certainly helped motivate this.

Arya started a little as the guards and then Sansa herself came around the corner, her cloak billowing regally behind her, her face a mask of concern and confusion.

Arya moved forward and embraced her sister, wanting to cry in relief as Sansa hugged her tightly in reply. It was so good, so impossibly good to see Sansa that for a moment Arya forgot why she had returned to Winterfell. It wasn't until they broke apart that anxiety set back in.

“What happened?” said her older sister urgently. “Is everyone all right?”

“Everyone is fine,” said Arya. “Jon sent me back.”

“Jon sent you back? Why?”

Arya opened her mouth to reply, but the words stuck in her throat. From inside her, the baby began its swirling, gentle movement against the inner skin of her womb. _Not now_ , she thought desperately, a sharp intake of breath escaping her.

Sansa's eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you all right?”

Before Arya had given it a second thought, she reached out for her sister's hand and guided it down to the curve of her stomach, pressing against where she felt the baby moving around. Arya kept her eyes trained on Sansa as her facial expression went from bewildered, to questioning...

Then comprehension dawned on her face. She looked at Arya, her eyes wide.

“You're..?”

Arya nodded.

Sansa was silent for a moment, her mouth agape.

“How...how far along?” she asked finally.

“The maester at the camp told me I was three moons along. It's closer to four now.”

“You stayed in the camp, pregnant, for nearly four moons?”

There was shock and surprise etched all over her face. Arya looked at the ground, guilt starting to boil in the pit of her stomach. Sansa was getting ready to tell her off. To scold her for being irresponsible, remind her how much trouble she was causing and how dare she allow herself to get pregnant in these times, and with a _bastard_ no less. Any number of things could come out of Sansa's mouth right now, and Arya wasn't sure she was ready to hear any of them.

But there was only silence. It hung in the air for several moments before Arya felt safe enough to look back up at Sansa.

She saw that her sister's eyes had softened.

“You're going to have a baby.”

She didn't sound angry or upset. Arya let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

“I am,” she affirmed.

Sansa studied Arya for a few more seconds before turning to look at the guards, who stood silently behind her.

“Please take my sister up to her chambers. Send for Maester Wolkan and have him examine her. Send for our midwives as well. Wait for them to arrive. They will want to look her over. I will be up there myself shortly. You will speak of this to no one else.”

Arya barely had time to register her own shock. She opened her mouth to say something to Sansa, perhaps thank her, or express her surprise, but the guards were already ushering her into the castle and to her chambers. Sansa had turned and walked away from them, her cloak fluttering out behind her.

Arya was quite happy to lie down once they arrived at her chambers. The walk had winded her, as everything so easily did these days. She still felt a twinge of annoyance as the guards hovered around the door, waiting for the maester and the midwives.

“I'm all right,” she said dismissively, waving a hand. “You don't have to wait.”

“Per Lady Sansa's request, my lady,” said one guard.

Arya was spared more irritation by the arrival of Maester Wolkan, who was flanked by the midwives, Chalyse Manderly and Arlenna Cassel. Though she was familiar with all three of them, Arya found she could not look anyone in the eyes as they approached. But if any of them reserved judgment about her current condition, they did not make it known to her. Maester Wolkan held her wrist for her pulse, looked in her eyes, pressed his fingers to different parts of her skin, stating he was feeling for any irregularities. Arya felt uncomfortable with him, though she had no real reason to. But then, she'd barely been comfortable with Maester Luwin all those moons ago. And Septa Mordane had certainly never approved of her. Today, at least, she was grateful that Maester Wolkan was not scolding her or telling her how she ought to be more of a lady. He only seemed concerned with making sure she and her child were healthy. Arya could accept that.

Maester Wolkan soon left to make her a mixture of herbs he wanted her to drink. After he had withdrawn, Chalyse and Arlenna came forward. Arya was glad to see them. She'd interacted with Chalyse and Arlenna during little Robb's birth, and briefly afterward. Though she had not seen them often after that, Arya had always found their presence comforting.

“How do you feel, my lady?” asked Chalyse.

“Fine,” said Arya. In truth, she was exhausted, but she would not say so. She refused to bemoan her condition in front of them. Or anyone.

The elder midwife's smile, coupled with her kind blue eyes, was a bit too understanding. Her brown hair, so common for those of House Manderly, was tied back into a long braid. She looked to be around the same age as Brienne, and as she bent down to pull Arya's shirt up over her stomach, Arya saw stray silver hairs nestled within the warm brown.

“I'm just going to feel for the baby, all right?” asked Chalyse.

Arya nodded, though she still jumped a little as the midwife's slender hands came to rest on her stomach. People besides Gendry and Sansa touching her belly felt invasive and foreign, and she didn't like it.

“About four moons along, I'd say,” Chalyse murmured after several moments of pressing and prodding. “Are you experiencing any pains?”

“Not really,” said Arya. “My back, sometimes.”

From behind Chalyse, Arlenna sat at the small table with a piece of parchment and a quill, taking notes.

“That's normal,” said Chalyse matter-of-factly. “As your time gets closer, you may experience pain in your back and swelling in your feet. You'll need more rest during that time. Is there anything else bothering you or causing problems?”

“No,” Arya said. She heard Arlenna's quill scratching away on the parchment.

“Lovely. I'm going to speak to Maester Wolkan and see how your elixir is coming along. Arlenna will look after you for a moment.”

Chalyse left the room. Arlenna approached the bed and sat in the adjacent chair. They sat in silence.

After a moment or two, Arya's hand absentmindedly traveled to her middle.

“It started moving a few days ago,” she said.

Arya wasn't sure why she felt more comfortable telling Arlenna this than Chalyse. Perhaps it was because Arlenna was of House Cassel, though the younger midwife's dark eyes and sandy hair that grew past her shoulders would not suggest that she was. Arlenna's smile was familiar nonetheless; that earnest kindness Arya had always found such solace in with the Cassels. A family still loyal to the North. To her family.

Somewhere in her, she missed Jory.

“It's good that your child is moving,” said Arlenna, breaking into her thoughts. Her voice was as feather-light as she looked. “It means he or she is healthy and growing.”

Arya supposed she should feel happy about this. She certainly felt some sort of tug deep down in her heart, but it had no name and no way to describe it. It wasn't happiness, but it wasn't sorrow or regret.

“It frightens me,” she said.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Arlenna reached out and took Arya's hand in both of hers.

“It's going to be all right.”

Arya wanted to believe her. Oh, did she want to believe Arlenna, that it really would be all right. It was just something that people said when they weren't sure what else to say. She couldn't know everything would be all right. But she was trying to provide comfort regardless of this, and kindness was never lost on Arya. She managed a small smile as the young midwife gave her hand a squeeze.

There was a creak from the door and in came Sansa. Arya saw, with a grin, her nephew Robb on Sansa's hip. The child rested his head on Sansa's shoulder, thumb in his mouth.

“Everything looks normal, Lady Sansa,” said Arlenna, standing to address her. “Chalyse and Maester Wolkan went to make her an elixir to drink. They should be back soon.”

“Thank you, Arlenna,” Sansa nodded graciously. “Leave us alone, if you please.”

“My lady.” The midwife dipped her head and left the room.

Robb reached his chubby hands out toward Arya, babbling eagerly as Sansa sat where Arlenna had been previously. She pressed a kiss to her son's cheek before setting him down on the bed.

“He misses you,” said Sansa, smiling fondly at little Robb as he crawled toward Arya. To have someone so innocently, purely happy to see her filled Arya with indescribable warmth. Momentarily overcome, she enveloped her nephew in her arms. Robb nuzzled into her, eventually coming to rest his head on her arm and popping his thumb back in his mouth, content.

“You read Jon's letter?” Arya asked, petting Robb's hair.

Her sister's silence was her answer.

Tears pricked at Arya's eyes as she kept them trained on her own fingers running through Robb's dark curls. She was determinedly not looking at Sansa, annoyed with herself for crying.

“He's upset with me.” Her voice came out smaller than she had expected.

Sansa sighed.

“He's just concerned for you, and for your child. There was no other option but to send you back here.”

Arya looked up at Sansa. Her older sister seemed to read the look on her face.

“You could not have stayed there pregnant. You could not have fought, either.”

“Perhaps I could have, for a while,” Arya said, a little stubbornly.

“You know Jon would never allow that. Keep you at the camp, and he would have felt responsible if something happened to you, or to your child.”

“He doesn't have to look after me.”

“But he does, Arya. Because he's our brother. Jon wanted to protect you and your baby. Not only from the fighting, either. The soldiers would talk. They would discredit you. He wanted to preserve your reputation. What would you have done in his place?”

Arya was unable to gratify this with a response. She could hardly bear the look Sansa was giving her. Not because it was negative – it wasn't – but because she was still expecting Sansa to scold her. That was the Sansa she grew up with. Not this quiet, patient, understanding Sansa. Her sister had really had her old self beaten and humiliated out of her, Arya mused. That was what was so horrible about Sansa's empathy. Arya knew where it had come from. Years of pain. Years of abuse.

Tears ran freely down her face.

“Why aren't you angry with me?”

A sympathetic expression crossed over Sansa's face.

“What's done is done,” was all she said.

A tiny snore sounded from next to Arya. Wiping her eyes, she looked down at little Robb to discover he had fallen asleep, his head still resting on her arm, his small quiet breaths tickling her skin.

Both sisters gazed fondly at him. Arya put her hand on Robb's back and closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of him sleeping beside her. The weight of him was comforting; warm and pleasant. The only presence in her life at the moment that was demanding nothing from her.

Arya leaned forward and pressed a very gentle kiss right under Robb's hairline, pulling him closer against her. Protecting him.

“I should take him to his cradle soon,” said Sansa after a few moments.

“Just one more minute,” said Arya drowsily.

And that was all it took for Arya to fall into a dreamless sleep, Robb still tucked against her, a brief moment of peace in their otherwise tumultuous world.

 

Sansa heard the door creak from behind her. She tore her gaze away from her sister and her son to see Maester Wolkan and Chalyse come into the room, Chalyse carrying a small bowl.

She stood, and they both bowed their heads.

“Lady Sansa.”

“They're asleep,” she said. “Maester Wolkan, please take my son to his cradle and watch over him a moment. I need to have a word with my brother Bran.”

“My lady,” he nodded. He moved past her to gather Robb from Arya's arms and carry the still-sleeping child from the room. Sansa watched them go.

Chalyse spoke softly. “Lady Sansa, the maester and I have prepared an elixir for your sister to drink.”

They both stared down at the young woman sleeping, her small frame curled under the many furs and pelts on the bed.

“Can't it wait?” Sansa murmured.

Chalyse nodded.

“It can.”

Sansa moved toward the bed, adjusting the furs and pelts over Arya, tucking them in so that she was warm. She then turned toward Chalyse.

“I would like you or Arlenna to come back and check on her periodically.”

“We were already planning to, my lady,” said Chalyse respectfully.

Sansa nodded. “That will be all, Chalyse. Thank you.”

The midwife bowed and withdrew.

As Sansa left the room, she beckoned to Arya's guard, who stood a short distance away in the corridor.

“Resume your post,” she said. “My sister is resting.”

The guard did as she asked.

Bran's chambers were only a short distance away. Sansa supposed she could talk to Maester Wolkan about the situation, and she would, but at that exact moment, it was only Bran she wished to speak to.

Sansa opened the door and entered the room to see Bran sitting in his usual place by the window, staring listlessly out at the snow-covered hill below.

He turned to look at her, looking unsurprised at her presence as she shut the door behind her.

“Seven hells,” Sansa murmured. Bran's eyebrows raised.

“You never curse.”

“Did you know Arya was pregnant?”

“Yes, I knew.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” demanded Sansa.

“Arya wanted to tell you herself. I saw no reason to take that opportunity from her.”

“Did she tell _you_ herself?”

“She didn't have to,” said Bran in a bored voice. “I felt her child's presence outside of Winterfell. The news would have been the same no matter who she told first. It was only a matter of time before – ”

“Oh, will you _stop_ that?” Sansa burst out suddenly.

The gnaw of frustration that she knew so well around her brother was grinding away at her nerves. Nothing seemed to stir Bran out of the ennui that he seemed to be permanently stuck in. Not even something pertaining to their family. And if there was ever a time Sansa wanted him to respond to something, now would be it.

“Stop what?” asked Bran, the slightest hint of amusement crossing his face. “Having visions? Seeing the past, present, and future? Being the Three-Eyed Raven?”

“You know what I mean. Don't you care about any of this?”

“It is irrelevant whether or not I care.”

“It is not irrelevant. You're her brother.”

“This is not a conversation worth having at the moment,” said Bran. “You came in here to express your concerns about Arya, so express them.”

Sansa exhaled in a long sigh, trying to calm herself. She must push her frustration with Bran aside for now. It would only cause her more stress.

“Arya's pregnancy is going to cause problems with the Northern lords.”

“Do you believe they will concern themselves with something as trivial as this, with the Night King's army on the horizon?”

“They will do nothing but concern themselves with it. They're already shaken by the fact that Jon is a Targaryen.” Saying that aloud still felt strange. “What will they think when they discover Arya's pregnant? And with Gendry Baratheon's bastard?”

Sansa sighed, turning away from Bran to stare out from his window.

“So you are aware that it's Gendry's child?” inquired her brother.

She nodded. “Jon mentioned it in his letter.”

Not that Sansa hadn't immediately guessed it was Gendry's child anyway. He and Arya had barely been able to keep their hands off of each other since he'd come to Winterfell with Jon.

“The Northern lords don't have to know that.”

“Most of them won't know who he is,” said Sansa, turning back toward him. “But they would look down on her if Gendry was highborn. He's a Baratheon bastard. They may accuse her of treason. Or they will shame her for becoming pregnant with a bastard's child.”

“You can't protect her from that,” said Bran.

Sansa smiled sadly at this.

“I can try.”

 

Upon returning to her own chambers, Sansa immediately sat down at her desk, seized a blank scroll, and began to write, her quill scratching furiously.

 

_Jon -_

 

_I wanted to inform you that our sister has made it safely to Winterfell, and she is resting in her chambers as I write this letter._

_I must say I was shocked to discover Arya is pregnant. It's complicated things for us. I don't know how the Northern lords are going to react, but I can imagine one of two things will happen. They may accuse her of treason for conceiving a child with a Baratheon bastard, even though House Baratheon is no longer a threat to us. Perhaps she may even be hailed for securing an alliance (of sorts) with the last living Baratheon. That is, of course, if they are aware of Gendry's origins. A more likely scenario is that they will try to marry our sister off to secure alliances. I won't let them do that to her._

_Maester Wolkan and the midwives have examined her, and they said everything looks fine._

_I am going to wait a day or two, so Arya can rest, and then I will call a meeting with the Northern lords. I am going to ask Arya that she be present. If I lock her in her room with nothing to do, she'll grow more restless and therefore more stubborn. I'm still not sure what we're going to do about the Northern lords’ reactions to our news, but we’ll just have to handle it as it comes._

_I will write again soon._

 

_Sansa_

 

What was she to do? Should she lie to the lords, and simply keep Arya hidden from sight until she delivered her baby? Even if she thought Arya would cooperate with this plan, it would never work. They would notice her with her child and figure it out on their own. The worst thing Sansa could do for the Northmen's loyalty to Jon is get caught in a lie. It would obliterate whatever credibility Jon had left.

But what was the cost of telling them the truth? _The Northern lords are proud,_ she'd told Arya once, and it was still true. Proud, yes, but frightened. Wary. Suspicious.

Either option would result in distrust and dissent among the lords.

Sansa inhaled deeply, then exhaled in a long sigh, collecting herself. There was a way to handle this. There was always a way. If anyone was ever going to believe that she was a worthy ruler of the North, she must find a way to sort this out.

 

When Arya awoke the next day, she felt reasonably better. She had vague memories of waking in between, once to drink some concoction and once to eat a small breakfast that Arlenna had brought up for her. As she sat up in bed, stretching her stiff muscles and rubbing her eyes, she noticed a mortar of crushed mint leaves on the night stand. She could not remember taking any mint, but she assumed it had happened somewhere in the night.

A knock sounded from the door. Arya froze. She did not want to be coddled by the midwives any more right now. Perhaps they would still think her still asleep if she remained still and quiet.

A minute or two passed, and the knock sounded again.

“Arya?”

It was Sansa.

She stood up slowly, so as not to get lightheaded, and crossed the room, grabbing a dressing gown and wrapping it around her as she opened the door for her sister.

“Are you here to free me from my chambers?”

Sansa's expression was slightly placating.

“You have to rest,” she said.

Arya rolled her eyes. The mothering never stopped with Sansa anymore. Since she'd had Robb, she fretted more than she used to.

“I've _been_ resting. I'm all right, really. I feel better after some sleep.”

Sansa seemed to realize that arguing would be useless.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she said. “May I come in?”

Arya nodded, opening the door more widely to allow her entry. Sansa walked into the room, taking a seat at the small table by the window. Arya sat down across from her, folding her hands, raising her eyebrows questioningly. She could not imagine what Sansa wanted to discuss with her, but judging by her facial expression, it promised to be an uneasy conversation.

Sansa swallowed.

“I'm not sure what the Northern lords are going to think about you carrying a child,” she said tentatively.

Arya hadn't given them any thought. She shrugged.

“I don't care what they think.”

Sansa smiled a little.

“I know,” she said. “But it puts us in a difficult position.”

“How do you mean?”

“We can't try to hide that you're pregnant. The last thing Jon needs is for us to be caught in a lie. If we say nothing, and one of the lords discovers that you're carrying a child, they will distrust Jon, and me, and you. Whatever respect Jon still has will disappear.”

Arya let her eyes rest on her sister, already starting to feel a sense of resignation.

“What are you proposing?” she inquired, though she knew perfectly well what Sansa was proposing.

“I thought I could call a meeting, and you be present. If they ask why you're home, and they will, we tell them the truth, and we emphasize your loyalty to the North. To our family.”

“I am loyal to the North. And to our family,” Arya said, feeling insulted.

“I know that, and Jon knows that. But as I've told you before, the Northern lords are proud. They will turn on Jon as soon as stand behind him. I have to secure their own loyalties as much as I can in Jon's absence.”

Arya said nothing in reply. She wasn't sure she was ready to do this. She was not ashamed of being pregnant with Gendry's child. What the Northern lords thought, or what anyone thought, was irrelevant to her. But the thought of announcing her pregnancy to them made her feel unexpectedly vulnerable.

“I don't have to call this meeting,” said Sansa, seeming to read Arya's facial expression. “I wanted to talk to you before I did.”

Arya sighed.

“What will happen if you don't?”

“Then they will find out on their own. After a time, you will no longer be able to hide it. You can barely hide it now,” Sansa gestured to Arya's stomach, which grew rounder by the day.

As if on cue, Arya felt her child start to squirm inside her. She could not help a sharp intake of breath.

“Arya?” Her sister frowned in concern.

“I'm fine,” she said, rubbing both hands over her small belly. “It's moving.”

A small smile crossed Sansa's face. Arya changed the subject.

“It's better to be forthcoming,” she admitted.

Sansa nodded in assent.

“I think so too,” she said.

She stood, straightening her cloak around her shoulders.

“Should I send the midwives up?”

Arya shook her head.

“I'd just like to be alone, if you please.”

Sansa surveyed her for a moment.

“Do you want to talk?”

“No,” said Arya.

Sansa seemed to accept this, though Arya did not miss the flash of hurt in her eyes. With a last nod, Sansa withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her.

 

 


End file.
